


Revenge, Remorse and Redemption

by alassenya



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Flogging, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-05
Updated: 2009-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:54:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alassenya/pseuds/alassenya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scene at the end of POTC2:DMC wasn't the first meeting of Cutler Beckett and James Norrington: they had encountered each other sixteen years before, in Madras.  Now Beckett has a grudge to avenge and the power to make Norrington's life a misery ... until the unexpected happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge, Remorse and Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, adventure, romance - more or less in that order.  
> Beta: Sassywitch  
> 1\. The story was written and posted in 2006, partly for the [Beckington Challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/cutler_beckett/14946.html). Challenge words were: Absolution, Diminutive, Measureless, Frolicsome and Jaded; with extra points awarded for: Unexpected talents, trading goods, Cutler's horse (name), and Bible quotations/references. Yes, I included every single one.  
> 2\. The story was written and posted after POTC2:DMC and was seriously jossed by POTC3:AWE.  
> 3\. Given that the scriptwriters for POTC paid little attention to contemporary accuracy, it was impossible to set the story properly into its historical milieu while remaining true to the POTC universe. I used the mid-1720s as the setting for the main story (based mostly on costume) but I didn't pay quite as much attention to contemporary detail as I would have done under normal circumstances.  
> 4\. Occasionally, the characters in this story express beliefs that were common and acceptable at the time but are now considered racist, sexist, blasphemous, fascist, communist, extremist or simply wrong. This does not mean to say that the author holds any of those ideas herself.  
> 5\. The story uses a multitude of words and phrases that are no longer in common use. I suggest that if you encounter an unfamiliar word, or one that looks odd in its context, you refer to a dictionary. If you have none to hand, try opening up www.dictionary.com in another window or tab.  
> 6\. The "Explicit" rating is based on descriptions of sex, violence, rape, torture, and abuse of good brandy.  
> 7\. There are 40 footnotes to this story, but AO3 can't display them properly, so I have removed them. If you would prefer to read the story with footnotes (which explain many of the more obscure references) it's posted at Dreamwidth, starting [here](http://alassenya.dreamwidth.org/56303.html) and LiveJournal starting [here](http://alassenya.livejournal.com/36964.html). Alternatively you can download a zipped Word 2003 or RTF file courtesy of [The Wayback Machine](http://web.archive.org/web/20070623021917/http://au.geocities.com/alassenya/RRR/rrr.htm).  
> 8\. 2013 note: I was idly perusing this story, as one does, and found that it had inexplicably failed to upload various paragraphs here and there. I have reloaded the text so all should be well now.

**Prologue**

_India, 15 years previously (circa 1711)_

Lieutenant James Norrington, RN, twenty-one years old and fourth lieutenant on board His Majesty's Ship _Southampton_, surveyed his handiwork in the small hand mirror and sighed. It was adequate, he supposed, but he would never be able to tie a cravat as neatly as Johnson, or as flamboyantly as Blakely. Still, as Blakely had told him repeatedly, he was lucky to be stepping ashore at all, since the captain hadn't quite forgiven him for an excess of alcohol and youthful exuberance in Bombay. Even if their current port was only Fort St George, with a small population comprising merchants and soldiers, it was still an enclave of England, and he was looking forward to some civilised conversation that didn't strain his hopelessly inadequate command of the Dutch and Portuguese tongues. If they were lucky, there would be some accommodating young matrons as well as pretty girls to dance with. If not, they'd sneak off later on and see what Madras had to offer in the way of whores and strumpets.

He patted his waistcoat pocket, making sure that the small pouch that contained his condom was there - he'd seen too many men afflicted by the ravages of disease to contemplate dallying with a strumpet unprotected. God grant that he would remain free of the clap and the great pox on this voyage and all the ones to come.

He went up to the main deck, where the ladder down to the _masulah_ boat was rigged. Blakely was already there, complaining loud and bitterly about the lack of a suitable dock. Norrington tried to ignore him - he'd heard it all before, when they were getting ready. Blakely was a fool to repeat it all in the open, but then even after many years in the navy, he had no tact and no ability to see anyone's point of view but his own. The irony was that he was already first lieutenant and would be in line for promotion to post-captain very shortly, as he reminded them at every available opportunity.

Norrington sighed. God help the sailors serving under Blakely as captain. They'd be lucky to survive.

The journey ashore being marred by nothing worse than sea-spray on their clothing (to Blakely's voluble disgust), they arrived at the president's mansion in good time and ascended the stairs to the large reception room, where a corpulent official announced them in stentorian tones to the room at large. Norrington felt the eyes of all the company turn towards them, and tried not to feel self-conscious. Many of the factors, and all of the women, were as pale as if they had just stepped out of a London drawing-room, while their clothes were embroidered, befrilled and bejewelled to the point where the base cloth was barely visible. In comparison, he felt that he and his fellow-officers were brown-skinned and weathered-looking, and none of them (except for the Captain) were wearing wigs, just their own hair tied back and lightly powdered. Their dress coats, which he usually thought so smart, were plain and uninteresting next to the peacocks of the East India Trading Company.

President Fraser stepped forward, greeting them with enthusiasm. "Ah, Captain Carruthers. You are very welcome."

Carruthers bowed. "Mr Fraser. I am sensible of the honour you do us. May I present Lieutenant Lord Blakely - Covington's eldest, you know - and Lieutenants Norrington and Johnson?"

"So these are your officers? Fine-looking gentlemen, all of them. Our girls will be all agog to dance with them, eh?"

"Indeed, Mr Fraser, I hope to see them gracing the dance-floor as soon as the music permits."

"Shouldn't be long, now. Still, they've got time to get a glass of wine before they step to." He beckoned to one of his staff, a boy of nineteen or twenty, who hurried over.

"Captain Carruthers, gentlemen, this is Cutler Beckett, one of our newest factors. He's already showing his mettle, eh, Beckett?"

Beckett flushed slightly, saying, "I am merely learning my way, sir.

"Well, Beckett, learn your way around these fine officers and make sure they get introduced to all the prettiest girls."

"Of course, sir."

Fraser nodded dismissal, and the three young officers and Beckett wandered further into the ballroom which, though small, was of pleasing proportions. It certainly wasn't a fashionable squeeze, but given the humidity - which he found affected him much more than the temperature - Norrington could only be grateful that the rooms were relatively thin of company. He could see a few girls gathered together, looking at the three of them and giggling madly. He wondered if any of them would be able to stop giggling for long enough to ask them to dance. He wouldn't mind a dance or two, with the chance to put his hands on a warm body. He wouldn't mind a bit more than that - he wouldn't mind a lot more, in fact - but he knew he wouldn't get it from them. They were gently-brought-up girls, and he had a need for riper charms if he was to get any relief from the almost-permanent erection he'd had for the last week.

Beckett signalled to a native, who hurried over with glasses of wine for them. He was a pretty boy, very easy on the eye, and there was something about him that made Norrington wonder, idly, if he might possibly meet the requirements of "riper charms". He didn't often feel this way about men, but it certainly wasn't the first time he'd wanted to pull down a pair of breeches instead of lifting a skirt. He wondered if Beckett was of a like mind, and if so, whether he'd be amenable to the suggestion of a tryst after the ball had concluded. Perhaps he could request that Beckett show him the sights of Madras by moonlight, or perhaps his lodgings.

With that thought in mind, he studied the boy in more detail. He was shorter than Norrington by some six inches, and pretty rather than handsome, with long eyelashes, soft, full cheeks, a sweet bow of a mouth, and a full set of teeth. He was neatly turned out, his dress far more elaborate than theirs, but like them he wore no wig, his hair being tied back neatly with a black riband. His waistcoat, lavishly embroidered, betrayed a keen interest in the fashion of the day, while his breeches were a sop to the climate, being of linen rather than velvet. His hands were pale and finely-kept, with no marks or calluses from manual work, and he wore two rings - a large ruby on one hand, a plain gold signet on the other.

_Oh yes_, thought Norrington, _he's a fine-looking lad. He'd make a fine bedfellow_. He sipped his wine, which was tolerable though not outstanding. Whatever else he might be, President Fraser was certainly not a judge of wine - or didn't care to waste his finest vintages on the Royal Navy.

Once they were all supplied with wine, Beckett appeared to relax a little. "Welcome to Madras, gentlemen," he said, civilly. "I hope that you have enjoyed what you have seen so far."

Blakely looked down his nose. He was tall and blond, with regular features that set the girls a-swooning, but his face was marred by a somewhat disdainful expression, as if he found the smell of money and trade too much to bear. "It's a fair trading post," he drawled, in a tone that implied exactly the opposite, "but loading the ship by lighter is very slow, especially when we have to compete with the merchantmen."

Beckett looked upset, and Norrington stifled an urge to apologise on behalf of his colleague. It was something he had complained of, too, but since then he had learned that the harbour was simply too shallow to allow ships to approach the shore, and they had not yet been able to dredge a channel deep enough to make the construction of a dock worthwhile.

"I'm sure there are many aspects of the town that will make up for the inconvenience," he said. "I noticed that many of the houses seem to glow in the sun, like marble - how is that achieved?"

Beckett almost fell over himself in his eagerness to embrace the change of topic. "It is a remarkable sight, is it not? I noticed it myself when I first arrived, and enquired as to the cause. It appears that the natives make a sort of lime from crushed shells. They call it chunam, and apply it to the walls like whitewash."

"It is quite striking."

"Indeed."

There was a pause while they all sipped their wine and considered what next to say. Beckett was the first to speak. "Have you had the opportunity to ride out to Chennai and the outer villages?" he asked.

Norrington opened his mouth, but Blakely spoke first. "Unfortunately, the business of re- victualling the ship is taking us longer than we had anticipated, and we have had little leisure for excursions. But I am sure that your people are doing all that they can." The words were unfriendly, the tone was forbidding, and Beckett appeared to give up on the idea of any polite conversation. He sipped at his wine, allowing the tip of his tongue to touch the rim of the glass, and Norrington had to exert the utmost control to stop himself from dragging him behind the nearest curtain and plundering that mouth.

The orchestra was tuning up, and Beckett took the officers over to a group of women by the side of the room. He introduced them and stood by as first Blakely and then Norrington and Johnson asked the maidens for the honour of the first dance. He didn't catch the name of his partner, and he didn't really care. He knew he'd never see any of them after tonight, and the steps of the dances precluded any but the most desultory conversation, so he allowed himself the indulgence of watching Beckett dance whenever he was able. Their eyes met, once or twice, and he thought that he might have seen the hint of a sly smile on the boy's face, but he couldn't be sure of the meaning.

An hour and several dances later, Norrington looked around the ballroom, ostensibly searching for his next partner, but found his gaze returning to Beckett, who was escorting his most recent partner back to her mama.

"The boy's quite luscious, isn't he?" Blakely said, in a confiding tone.

Norrington started. "He is very good-looking, and has an agreeable manner. I imagine that all the girls swoon over him."

"Not just the girls, eh? Look at that mouth. I wonder where he went to school?"

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Come on, Norrington. We're all men of the world here. Don't tell me you've never looked at a handsome lad and wondered what he'd be like to fuck."

Norrington felt himself blush. He'd thought himself beyond embarrassment after seven years in the navy, and was annoyed that Blakely, of all people, could disconcert him so easily. He tried to pass it off as a joke. "After so many weeks at sea, I'd be prepared to fuck almost anything that moves."

Blakely guffawed. "That's the spirit!" He downed half his wine in one go and leaned over, his fume-laden breath at least sweeter than normal. "What say we have a small wager on the subject?"

"How?"

"I'll wager you twenty guineas that you can't fuck him before the ship leaves."

Norrington swallowed. Twenty guineas was an enormous sum to him—three months' salary—and a lot more than he could afford to lose, but it mattered much more that the subject of the bet was abhorrent. He opened his mouth to refuse, but Blakely forestalled him.

"Come on, Norrington. You don't have to play the innocent here, you know. Do you not think you can do it? Or is it that you can't afford a simple wager? Pay or play, man, pay or play. Or maybe I should make it a little more sporting? Yes, damme, that's what I'll do! I'll wager you twenty guineas that I can fuck him before you can. I'll even give you until the supper interval before I make a move. Can't say fairer than that."

Norrington felt a flash of anger. Blakely was everything he loathed in the nobility - he was arrogant, proud and rude, with no talent or skill to make his failings tolerable. The thought of him buggering Cutler Beckett was so offensive it was nauseating, and Norrington found himself saying, "I'll play, Blakely, and by Jupiter, I'll win."

"That's the spirit!" Blakely upended his glass, and appeared somewhat disappointed to find it empty. He wandered off towards the drinks table. "Hop to it, Norrington. Only another hour until supper, you know."

Norrington watched him go, furious with himself for accepting such an expensive and distasteful wager. As fate would have it, he turned and found himself face to face with young Beckett again. He bowed slightly and said, half-apologetically. "I'm afraid that you might have formed the impression that we don't like Fort St George, but that isn't the case."

"I'm sure it isn't," replied Beckett, courteously. "Though Lord Blakely appears to have taken umbrage at the lack of a wharf."

"Don't take his words to heart, lad," he said. "It's not as if we're unused to loading stores by boat. We are all worn down by the heat and humidity here. Give us a strong gale and plenty of sea room and we'll be happy where most others would be prostrate. It's all a matter of what you're used to."

Beckett spoke in a low voice, somewhat mollified by the apology. "The pity of it is that I can understand his sentiments. I am but newly arrived from England myself, and I feel the lack of conveniences that I always took for granted. Who would think, for instance, to specify which items of laundry require starch and which do not? In England one's valet would attend to all, but the servants here do not always understand our customs, and one spends almost as much time in explaining why things must be done so, as one would spend in doing the things oneself." He sighed, then visibly forced himself to make light of it. "But I am sure that things will improve with time. With every ship comes some new comfort from home. Only last month, for example, we received some very fine wines for the public table."

_Pity they didn't find their way here,_ thought Norrington, but aloud he said merely, "How long have you been here?"

"Three months only. I am still learning the business, but my aim is to advance as far in the Company as my talents will take me."

"What brings you so far from home? Was it your aim to travel from childhood?"

"Heavens, no! That is," he went on, hurriedly, appearing rather embarrassed by his admission, "my father thought that there would be more opportunities for me abroad than in England, and when my uncle arranged a position for me with the company I found that I was not averse to travel."

Norrington realised that his question had been rather personal, and apologised. "Forgive me; it was rude to pry."

Beckett's smiled gratefully. "It's understandable, lieutenant. After so much time with a small group of people one must develop a hunger for new acquaintance."

"Indeed, one does," murmured Norrington, wondering if the boy had any idea how delicious he appeared when he smiled shyly like that. He took another sip of his wine and grimaced at the taste of it.

"Would you care for some better wine than this? President Fraser is a fine man, but his palate is indiscriminating. I have a decent claret and some brandy if you would care to step around to my lodgings."

Norrington hesitated, and Beckett flushed. "I'm sorry if I appear too bold. The truth is that there are few single men here of gentle birth, and I sometimes want for company myself."

Norrington felt his breeches growing tight. Could the boy be even more enticing? Did he know how well he was falling into his trap - Blakely's trap? And yet, if they went to Beckett's lodgings, he'd be able to seduce the boy and secure the wager for himself this very night. It wasn't just the thought of twenty guineas, he told himself, it was the sheer repugnance that he felt at the thought of Blakely getting anywhere near this exquisite boy. It couldn't be allowed.

"I would be honoured to be your guest - though would it not appear somewhat singular to leave before the ball concludes?"

Beckett smiled. "Not at all - though I shall inform the President that I am taking you off to see some rare manuscripts I found a few weeks ago. He'll understand that a little better, I think."

Norrington acquiesced, and they made their way out of the President's house with no hindrance. The night air was relatively cool after the heat of the ballroom, and they strolled along the streets of the white town until they came to Beckett's lodgings - a suite of rooms in a large house owned by the Company and used for their junior and unmarried staff. The rooms were surprisingly large, with high ceilings and slatted shutters for the windows instead of glass. A native servant appeared at the clap of Beckett's hands, and nodded repeatedly as Beckett demanded a bottle of brandy and two glasses. While they were waiting, he showed Norrington out onto the balcony that extended the length of the apartment, accessible from both parlour and bedchamber.

They leaned over the balustrade, glasses in hand, and looked out over the harbour, at the lights twinkling from the houses around the bay and the ships at anchor.

"This is as fine a brandy as I have ever tasted," offered Norrington. "Is it French?"

Beckett smiled. "Of course. The company sees no benefit in carrying inferior goods, regardless of the vicissitudes of war. We have an excellent commissary and general store here in the fort, and of course the native markets can supply almost anything you want, besides the usual trading goods."

"Almost? You disappoint me."

"Ah, but there are always things that one cannot buy."

"Precious little, in my experience," said Norrington, morosely. He shrugged and tried to change the subject. "This is an exceptional view, Mr Beckett."

"It is. I was lucky to be able to secure this particular set of chambers a sennight after my arrival. I believe that one of the other factors had had his eye on it for sometime, and was somewhat chagrined to find that I had beaten him to it. Fortunately for me, I was able to exert some small influence and made sure that my man had my belongings moved in the moment it became available.

"Did your colleague not complain?"

"Of course he did! But possession is nine-tenths of the law, after all, and a discreet distribution of largesse took care of the remaining fraction. My case prevailed, and here I am." He smiled ingenuously, and Norrington shook his head. He was intimately familiar with the principle, having been on the losing end numerous times, but he felt he could have borne the outcomes a little better had all his opponents had such winning ways.

He sipped his brandy, and leaned over the balcony. He was reminded of the many times he had leaned over the balustrade on ships, looking down into the sea, knowing that countless fathoms lay between the ship and the sea bed. The brandy was making him philosophical, and he said, "Have you ever stood on the deck of a ship and looked down into the measureless depths of the ocean? Have you ever wondered what it would be like to drown? - to fall to the bottom of the sea, to feel the last of the air escaping from your lungs, and then the cold, heartless inrush of water?"

Beckett laughed. "I can honestly say that I never thought such a thing. What melancholy humours you sailors have! Do you not hear _the myriad laughter of the ocean waves_?"

"Myriad laughter?"

"Aeschylus. But I forget - you wouldn't have studied the classics."

Norrington bristled at the patronising tone. "I studied Latin when I was young. Once I went to sea my studies were taken up with navigation, mathematics and geometry, leaving little time for more frivolous subjects."

"Oh dear, I seem to have hit a nerve. Please accept my apologies, lieutenant."

Norrington bowed, but did not speak.

Beckett tried again. "I have often wondered what it must be like to sail for weeks on end without sighting land. It must cause great hardship."

"Did you not travel here by ship yourself?"

"Oh, yes," Beckett was dismissive, "but we were hardly ever out of sight of land - never for more than two or three days. I would like to know what it's like to sail across the ocean, never knowing if one will sight land that day or the next - or ever."

Norrington shivered. Though the fear of being lost in an endless ocean was something that every sea-faring man had experienced at some stage, it was not one that was generally spoken aloud, sailors being among the most superstitious creatures. "It's best not to talk of such things," he said.

"What shall we talk about then?"

Norrington hesitated. To be truthful, he wanted to stop talking and start shagging, but although he suspected an ulterior motive in Beckett's invitation, he was not yet sure of the boy. "I am yours to command," he said with a wry grin and a bow. "I believe you said something about some rare manuscripts you had acquired recently."

Beckett set his glass down. "Mine to command, indeed? Hmm..." he mused as he came a little closer, "I may have to take up that offer ... assuming I was right about you."

"In what way?" Norrington asked, not even realising that his own voice was soft and husky, betraying his own desire. When Beckett leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, he was momentarily taken aback at the suddenness and at the boy's confidence that he would take his advances in the right way.

His arms went around the boy of their own volition, and he surrendered himself to the embrace, tilting his head and opening his mouth to Beckett's questing tongue. Heavens! He tasted as good as he felt, and Norrington gasped as he was flooded with desire.

Their kisses quickly changed from passionate to frantic, and they scrabbled with their hands, trying to insinuate fingers under coat, waistcoat, shirt and breeches.

"I've been wanting this all night," panted Norrington.

Beckett pushed his hips forward. "I can tell."

Somehow, they managed to move from the balcony to the bedchamber, where the sheets were turned down and a lamp burned brightly on a side table. Coats and waistcoats were discarded onto the chairs, shoes were kicked off and linen shirts dropped to the floor as they hurriedly made their way towards the bed. They kissed again, bare-chested now, and the heat of skin on skin inflamed their passions further.

Beckett licked the delicate skin under Norrington's ear. "You taste of salt," he murmured.

"You taste of spices," replied Norrington, nibbling his way down Beckett's neck.

They could scarcely bear to pull away long enough to get their breeches off, but finally they were naked, lying on the fine linen sheets, looking at each other in the candlelight. Beckett's eyes were dark and luminous, his mouth swollen from kisses, and he looked more beautiful than ever. Norrington ran a hand down the length of his body, noting how Beckett shivered at his touch, and leaned forward to kiss him once more. This time he was more deliberate, commencing a thorough and detailed examination of Beckett's mouth, while his hands roamed freely over heated skin.

"I think we can progress beyond kissing, don't you think?" whispered Beckett a minute later, as he reached a hand down to take hold of Norrington's cock, eliciting a gasp and a shudder. "What do you want to do next?"

"I want to suck you."

Beckett rolled back, his smile reminding Norrington of a very pleased cat. "Be my guest," he said, indicating his rock-hard erection, which stood proud from his body, taller and thicker than might have been expected from the boy's stature.

Norrington eased his way down the bed, planting kisses over the boy's chest and stomach, before pausing in front of the truly magnificent erection. He felt as if he were kneeling in worship, and gave it a firm, slow stroke with his hand. "Truly a marvel," he whispered.

Beckett smiled even more broadly. "Much as your words please me, I would prefer that you put that mouth to better use."

Norrington swirled his tongue around the head, and had the satisfaction of hearing Beckett groan and fall back onto the bed. He opened his mouth and slid down over the shaft, as far as he could reach without gagging.

"Oh, that's good," Beckett lifted a hand to caress Norrington's neck. "Don't stop."

Norrington didn't. He licked, and stroked, and sucked, feeling himself grow even harder as he heard Beckett's voice moaning and gasping nonsense words. He could taste the fluid that was leaking from the boy's cock - sweet and salt - and readied himself for the climax, which followed soon after.

He pulled himself up, looking at Beckett's flushed face, his skin warm and sheened in sweat, his limbs sprawled over the sheets. It was a good minute before Beckett moved and then it was to smile and say, "Lie down so I can do the same for you."

Norrington shook his head. "I want to fuck you."

Beckett frowned. "I'd rather -" he began.

Norrington silenced him with a kiss. "I really, really, want to fuck you. I'll make it good for you. You'll enjoy it too - I promise."

Beckett hesitated, and Norrington wondered for a moment if he might be a virgin. "Have you done this before?" he asked gently.

"Oh yes," Beckett replied blithely. "That's not the problem. It is merely that I object to men assuming that I'll play the woman's part simply because I'm short. I like to fuck as well."

Norrington shook his head. "It's not that you're short," he murmured. "It's that you have the sweetest lips, the softest cheek, and the smoothest, fairest skin I've seen in man or woman in a long, long time. Added to that, you have the most delectable bottom that simply begs to be buggered. You drive me wild with lust. I want to bury myself in you as far as I can reach. I want to feel you come with me inside you." He punctuated his speech with kisses and caresses, to the point where Beckett lay back and smiled.

"Your eloquence prevails, lieutenant. I'm yours for the taking."

"Do you have any oil?"

"Mmm, let me get it." He reached into a small drawer in the table beside the bed and brought out a small stoppered vial.

Norrington smiled. "That's convenient."

Beckett grinned back. "I indulge myself at least twice a day, sometimes more. In this hot climate I need the lubrication or I'll chafe."

"Oh, that would be a tragedy."

"Of course it would. Now, put a little on your fingers, and place them where they'll do the most good."

"I _have_ done this before, you know," Norrington said, even as he complied.

"I thought you might. Mmmm ... that's nice. I could see you looking at me in the ballroom - you looked like you wanted to ravish me then and there."

"I did. I was hoping that my breeches were loose enough not to give me away."

"A vain hope, I'm afraid - but I think that most of the company would choose to believe that your amorous thoughts were directed to the pretty maidens you were dancing with." He squirmed. "Oh, yes, that's good."

"Is that enough?" Norrington asked, having worked three fingers into Beckett's arse. He could see that the boy's cock was starting to revive already, and bit his lip, trying to calm himself down.

"I think I'll manage. Just put plenty of oil on your cock."

Norrington was about to reach for the oil when he thought of the sheath. It was still in his waistcoat pocket, somewhere between the balcony and the bed, but he couldn't remember where.

"What's the matter?"

"I have a sheath," he explained.

Beckett raised himself on one elbow, looking indignant. "If you think you're going to wear some filthy leather monstrosity that you've poked inside every whore from here to the Americas, you can think again! I don't have the pox or the clap, and I don't want them either."

"Neither do I."

"Then let's lie with each other naked and to the devil with the consequences."

Norrington frowned at that, but he told himself that he shouldn't be so superstitious - he was as keen as Beckett to fuck naked, providing that they were both clean.

He poured a little more oil into his hand and coated his cock liberally. It felt so good that he had to pinch the sensitive skin near the head to stop himself coming.

"Don't you dare come before me," warned Beckett. "I want a good strong fuck."

"You'll have to wait a minute, then. I'm too close now," muttered Norrington. He took a few deep breaths and decided to apply his mouth to Beckett's cock again before entering him. There was a little more musk, but otherwise no difference in taste, and he took the whole cock into his mouth, licking it gently, rolling it around in his mouth until it stiffened and lengthened and he had to draw back. Beckett was panting again, and Norrington had to put an arm across his hips to stop him squirming. He rolled his oily fingers over Beckett's balls and the sensitive skin behind, and was gratified to hear Beckett reduced to whimpers and moans.

Finally he judged that the time was right. "Roll over," he ordered, and the boy obediently rolled over onto his stomach, sticking his bottom into the air and spreading his knees.

Norrington nearly moaned himself at the sight before him - the plump round buttocks, pushed up and eager for him, the skin oiled and shining in the candlelight, and the puckered skin at the centre - soft and relaxed, just waiting for him. He bit his lip and gently pressed a finger in.

"I think we've established that I'm oiled and stretched, lieutenant. Try putting your cock in there. Once you've mastered that, you might try moving it in and out. That generally works for most people."

Norrington laughed. The boy was feisty and not afraid to challenge him - he liked that. He readied himself and pushed in gently, increasing the pressure as he felt the resistance in the flesh. Both of them groaned as he slid inside, and Norrington paused, letting them both adjust. Then he started to move - slowly, wanting to make it last, wanting to make it as pleasurable as it could possibly be. It was an effort to keep his movements slow and rhythmical, but it was worth it.

After only a couple of minutes, they were both approaching their climaxes. Beckett was grunting with each thrust, the pitch getting higher and higher. Norrington nearly bit through his lip as he struggled to maintain some sort of control over himself, as he tried to put off the inevitable. Suddenly Beckett gave a strangled cry and Norrington felt his muscles contract around him as he came. The added stimulus pushed Norrington into his own orgasm, and they shuddered together before collapsing onto the sheets.

"Godsblood, that was good!" breathed Beckett, some time later. "I don't think I've been buggered so well since I left school."

Norrington nodded. He was still too exhausted to speak. He felt Beckett roll over on to his side, looking at him, and wondered how the boy had the strength to move. He turned his head slightly and smiled. If he lived to be a hundred, he didn't think that he would ever see anyone as beautiful as Cutler Beckett after being thoroughly debauched: dark eyes, flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips all combined into one intoxicating picture.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked.

"When are you due back on board?"

"Not till midday."

"Stay here, then."

"What about your man?"

"What about him? Oh, don't worry. I've already told him that he'll be well-paid for not gossiping - and well-punished if I find out he's been telling tales."

"I hope you're right."

"I'm always right."

Norrington laughed. "Always? Such confidence."

Beckett grinned. "Well, nearly always right." He rested his head on Norrington's shoulder and draped an arm over his chest. "And, besides, I want to do this again in the morning."

"An admirable plan."

They lay in silence for a few minutes, listening to the distance roar of the surf, feeling the light breeze drift over their skin. Norrington could hear the sound of people in the street and wondered if the ball had finished yet. He was glad he could lie there for a while yet. It had nothing to do with the way that Beckett's fingers were idly stroking his belly, or the soft, contented sigh he made with every other breath. It had nothing to do with the way his legs had intertwined with Beckett's, in a way that was paradoxically as comfortable as it was discomforting.

He knew better than to let emotion get the better of him. He told himself it was just a fuck. But it had been a good fuck, he admitted. More than that - it had been a truly outstanding fuck. He wished that the ship were staying for more than the few days it would take to load water and victuals, so that he could look forward to another night in Beckett's bed. His last thought before he drifted off to sleep was that he should ask Johnson if he could swap a duty.

~~~~~

It would all have ended quite happily - or, at least, not unhappily - if it hadn't been for Blakely. When Norrington confronted the first lieutenant the next day, stating that he had completed the terms of the wager, Blakely demurred.

"How do I know you actually fucked him?" he asked.

"Are you saying that you won't take my word for it? You saw me leave with him!"

"I'm saying that twenty guineas are twenty guineas - and you wouldn't be the first to exaggerate a claim of conquest."

"You - you -" Norrington was actually speechless with rage. That his word should be questioned was the worst possible insult, and that Blakely should accuse him of lying for financial gain was the last straw. He stepped forward with the intent of blackening the man's eye, when Johnson intervened.

"No, Norrington!" he said, actually stepping between the two protagonists. "You can't strike him. You mustn't!"

Norrington took a deep breath. Johnson was right. Although they were all the same rank, Blakely was senior to him, and was therefore a "superior officer". To strike him meant a court martial, and he had no doubt who would come off worst. He allowed himself to be drawn back a few paces, and half-listened to Johnson as he reasoned with Blakely. The end result was that Blakely handed him a small purse with the promised twenty guineas, then turned away, his face red with fury.

Norrington sighed. He imagined that the next few weeks at sea were going to be somewhat fraught. Ironically, the best he could hope for was that Blakely was promoted soon and sent to another ship.

~~~~~

It wasn't until the following day - their last in Madras - that Norrington was granted leave once more, and he hurried through the Fort to the offices that Beckett had pointed out that first night. A few enquiries soon led him to the office he sought, in one of the company's factories, and he was announced and bowed in by a Hindoo servant who stood by the door.

"Good afternoon, Mr Beckett," he began formally, conscious that there was an audience. "I hope you don't mind my intrusion, but I've been granted leave and wondered if you would care to continue the conversation we began the other night?"

Beckett looked more annoyed than pleased, dismissing the servant with a curt gesture. "Lieutenant Lord Blakely visited me yesterday afternoon," he said, and looked up from his desk.

Norrington's heart sank. If Blakely had meddled, the result would not be happy for anyone.

Beckett continued, his voice purposefully dry and flat. "He had a most amusing tale to tell - or so he viewed it, and he assumed I would find it equally entertaining. It appears that naval officers are in the habit of making wagers on their chances with the local belles - and beaux. It also appears that you and he made a wager on which one of you would succeed in bedding me. I would like to think that his story was a complete fabrication but he was quite adamant that he had given you twenty guineas."

Norrington couldn't speak. He felt nauseated.

"So am I to suppose that the story is true? You seduced me for twenty guineas?"

"It wasn't like that," Norrington tried to explain. "It was either him or me, and I couldn't bear to think of him touching you."

Beckett looked disgusted. "Do you honestly think that I'm anyone's for the asking? He wouldn't have had me, no matter how sweet his words."

"You don't know Blakely."

"You don't know me."

Norrington looked at the set of his mouth, and remembered the feel of his shoulders and thighs. Perhaps he would have fought Blakely off - and then again, perhaps Blakely would have used other means to overcome his resistance. He tried again. "I wanted you anyway - before he even suggested it."

"Is that supposed to make everything better?"

"It's supposed to make you realise that the wager had nothing to do with the way I felt about you. I wanted to lie with you - I wanted it since the moment I set eyes on you." He shrugged. "The only regret I have is that we sail on the morning tide. I wanted to spend my last hours in Madras with you."

"I'm overwhelmed but I'm afraid I must decline. As a junior factor here I have to be careful of my reputation - and Blakely has already done his best to ruin it. I'm going to go far in the Company, and I won't have my progress impeded by involvement in some tawdry game played by sailors."

"It wasn't a game."

"It wasn't exactly honest dealing either, was it? You used me for financial gain."

"Don't make it into a tragedy. We fucked, that's all. You enjoyed it as much as I, and everything else is immaterial."

"Twenty guineas are hardly immaterial."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Norrington pulled out the purse and threw it on the table. "There they are. Take them! And may they bring you more joy than they did me!" With that he turned on his heel and stormed out, through the narrow streets of the fort and the gate that led to the shore and the _masulah_ boats.

It wasn't until he got back to the ship that he realised that he'd given away three months' salary in a moment of temper. Stupid of him. He could have used the money twice over, he knew ... but then it had never been his, not really. It was Blakely's money, and tainted by association. He was better off without it.

Ah well, he mused as he climbed up the ladder to the ship's main deck, tomorrow they'd put Madras behind them, and in all likelihood he'd never see Cutler Beckett again, so what was the point of brooding over a minor detail? He'd drunk some excellent brandy, he'd had a great fuck, and, as far as he knew, he hadn't caught the clap. So far, so good.

He lifted his head, smelled the salt air and laughed as he crossed the brow onto the deck of the ship.

  
**Chapter 1**

_Port Royal, Jamaica (circa 1726)_

The prison cell in the fort was just as Norrington remembered it - cool, damp, and very dirty. It was dimly lit from the narrow windows and the sconces on the walls, and smelled of human filth and rotting bones and moss. At least there were few other inhabitants at the moment, allowing him the luxury of a cell to himself. They were quiet, too, which suited him well, but it gave him all too much time to ponder the present state of affairs.

His state was sorry indeed - a disgraced officer of the Royal Navy, turned to piracy (and not even as a pirate captain!), hunted by Davy Jones' men, picked up by an East India Company ship and arrested on the orders of one Cutler Beckett. Worst of all was the knowledge that it was no more than he deserved - he'd fallen in love, then fallen into folly, and there was no escaping the guilt he felt at the loss of his ship and her crew.

He'd learned about the arrival of Cutler Beckett from Elizabeth Swann. It had given him some wry amusement to hear that the young trader with pretensions had clawed his way through the ranks of the East India Company. He had been less amused to hear of the warrant for his arrest - and after he'd thought the matter closed, too. He'd heeded the warning in the letters he'd received from the Admiralty: he'd tendered his resignation, packed up his house and slipped away one night on a local sloop: disgraced and forgotten ... or so he had thought. Now it appeared that their lordships wanted more than his commission as an officer in payment for his sins, and they'd chosen Lord Beckett as the executor of their will - or perhaps executioner would be a better term.

_Lord Beckett_. Good grief - the insolent little thruster had obviously come a long way. He wondered what the man would look like now. Curiously, Elizabeth had never described his appearance, and neither had Will Turner. Had fifteen years of Indian sun turned him as brown as a sailor? Would his body be wasted by sickness or gross with indulgence? He had no idea. He was certain, though, that Beckett wouldn't be the fresh-faced, eager boy he'd fucked that night after the president's ball.

He leaned back against the cold stone, remembering the heat of Madras, the heat of Beckett's body against his own, the way the boy had arched and moaned and clung to him ... Gods, but he wished he could remember every minute. He'd been mouth-watering, so sweet, so wanton, so utterly abandoned. If only he hadn't had that wager with Blakely ... well, who knows what might have happened. Maybe he'd have treated Beckett with more consideration; maybe they would have become friends; maybe he would have had a happier life.

Instead, Beckett was a peer of the realm with a grudge to avenge, Norrington was a prisoner in his own fort, and Blakely was dead of the pestilence these ten years and more. Life never turned out the way one imagined.

He wondered what Elizabeth was doing now.

~~~~~

Evening darkened into night. Mosquitos buzzed and whined about him, eager to drink his blood. He slapped them away, wishing vainly for some of the scented candles his steward had used to keep them at bay when alongside. He debated taking off his coat to use as a pillow, but decided, in the end, that he'd rather risk a stiff neck than a chill. It wouldn't be the first time he'd slept on plain boards, after all, and if his fortunes didn't improve, it wouldn't be the last.

Dawn was heralded by the usual chorus of birds, louder than usual. The gaol attendant entered soon afterwards, ensuring that all the prisoners were awake by the simple expedient of banging his keys against the bars. The sound echoed off the stone walls and made most of them wince. "Awright, then, you scum. Time to be up," he bawled.

Norrington took his ration for the morning - a hunk of dry bread and a pint of water - and returned to the bench. He wished he had money to pay for better food, but he had nothing of value left, not even a sword. He sipped his water - it was fresh and cool, at least, but one pint was hardly going to keep thirst at bay.

It was around three o'clock - as near as he could judge from the light - when the gaoler re- appeared, this time accompanied by Mercer, the man who'd met the ship that had picked him up, and two Company militiamen. He stood while his cell was unlocked, and the soldiers moved in briskly to seize him on either side. He made no protest - it would have been worse than useless - and instead cast a wry look at Mercer's impassive face.

"I can assure you that I have no intention of trying to escape," he said, calmly.

Mercer gave him a thin-lipped smile in return, and held up a set of irons. "All prisoners are to be shackled when out of cells. Standing Orders."

Ah yes, Standing Orders. They were probably the using the Navy orders, the set he himself had signed a year ago and more, long ago, in the days when he was still in charge of the Jamaica squadron. He'd seen many a criminal in that office on the upper levels of the Fort Charles, all of them shackled, all of them protesting their innocence. He'd never imagined that one day he would make one of their number himself.

The irons were fastened around his wrists and he followed Mercer out of the cell and up the stairs. Instead of continuing up to the offices, though, they turned off into a dark corridor. Norrington knew where it went - a small postern door that led into an alley and then to the open courtyard - but he didn't know why.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked.

Mercer didn't even look around as he answered, "East India House."

That meant nothing to him - there had been no such house when he had left Port Royal. Still, he would find out soon enough where the Company had made its lodgings.

A carriage was waiting for them in the courtyard - large and ornate, with the insignia of the East India Company on the doors. Norrington made a face at the ostentation, but he had to admit that the carriage was comfortable and eased the impact of the badly-paved streets.

The carriage pulled up beside another alley that ran alongside one of the larger houses that faced the wharves. He recognised it at once: it had belonged to a rich merchant - what was his name? he couldn't recall - who had packed up and returned home to England around the same time as Norrington had resigned. It had elegant lines and spacious apartments, and he resented bitterly the fact that the East India Company could arrange quarters for their Agent so easily. No doubt they would be ordering carpets and furnishings in the company design, the better to intimidate suppliers and competitors.

They entered the house through a side door near the kitchens and Mercer led the way through long narrow corridors and up more stairs, passing through the baize door that formed the barrier between the servants' domain and the public apartments. One final corridor, one final doorway, and then they were in a large, imposing study. Norrington looked to the light and saw an impressive view of the harbour and wharves. Then he became aware of the figure sitting at the desk, and looked at the man he hadn't seen for fifteen years.

It was an interesting view - and it was definitely the same man. Cutler Beckett had filled out nicely. The powdered wig suited him much better than his own light brown hair had done, framing his face - which was still remarkably fair and smooth - and drawing the viewer's attention to the sweetness of the mouth. His hands were white and equally smooth, the long and graceful fingers set off with a gold signet ring. Rich waistcoat, lace cravat, fine linen - oh yes, Cutler Beckett was a good-looking man. Not even the slight stubble on his face detracted from his looks - if anything, it accentuated his masculinity, eliminating the softness that Norrington half-remembered from Madras.

Mercer and Beckett had been conversing in low tones while he was lost in thought. Beckett had examined the letters of marque that had he had taken from Sparrow's boat on Isla Cruces, and was now staring at the bag on his desk that pulsed faintly, attracting a cloud of flies through the shutters.

Beckett looked up at him. "Well, well, well. Mr Norrington, isn't it? Mr James Norrington, lately Commodore in His Majesty's Navy, now a penniless convict and pirate. How the mighty are fallen, indeed."

Norrington stayed silent. He wasn't going to bandy insults with anyone today. He had one aim only - to trade the heart of Davy Jones for his life, his freedom, and possibly some gold to ease his way into polite society again. He could take a little humiliation in order to achieve that aim.

"What do you expect me to do with this ... this lump of offal?"

"That lump of offal, as you term it, is what you've been looking for. With this you can control Davy Jones himself, and, through him, the seven seas. I imagine I've no need to tell you what the East India Trading Company could do with that sort of power."

"No need at all." Beckett took a few seconds to examine the bag on the desk. "He who commands the sea has command of everything," he murmured. He waved off the flies before looking up at Norrington. "And what do you expect me to give you in return?"

"My life and freedom. Some money, to start over. Safe passage to Virginia. A ship would be most welcome but I think that might be asking a little more than you are prepared to give."

"Indeed it would. You seem to have an extremely high notion of your own worth."

"I've achieved more than Turner or any of your own men did. That's worth something."

Beckett stood up and walked around the desk, revealing a short but elegant figure. His knee- breeches were of the finest cloth and his shoes bore large gold buckles that glinted in the sunlight. Norrington could see that he hadn't grown much, if at all, since they had last met - he was quite short, and would undoubtedly reach no higher than Norrington's own shoulder, should he stand so close. Lord Beckett's diminutive form, however, was none the less imposing, such was the force of character. He stood beside the large map on the wall, and faced Norrington with amusement and not a little contempt.

"It may be worth something, but not as much as you might have expected." He assumed a look of pious superiority and continued. "You appear to be unaware that this case has attracted enormous interest in London. The loss of your ship and many of the crew in a hurricane was a nine-days' wonder: shocking and unexpected, but not, alas!, unprecedented in recent times. The fact that the aforementioned hurricane overtook your ship in the Mediterranean rather than the Caribbean did not go unnoticed, but your position so far from your duty station was taken as a token of your zeal in pursuit of your orders - misplaced, to be sure, but genuine nevertheless. The Admiralty, I am told, placated its critics, exacted its revenge and offered up a scapegoat by demanding your resignation, and all might have been well if it had not been for the subsequent news, conveyed from certain parties in Jamaica, of the circumstances preceding the departure of the _Dauntless_ from Port Royal all those months ago.

"The realisation that a Naval officer allowed the notorious pirate Jack Sparrow - yes, I _do_ know that he styles himself captain, thank you - allowed him a full day's head start, after which the said Naval officer was unable to catch him, despite having the fastest ship in the New World, could not go unnoticed by the Court, let alone the Admiralty. Questions were asked in the House of Lords that risked serious embarrassment to the King and his ministers. Their lordships at the Admiralty saved themselves only by declaring that your actions were deemed to be so far beyond your orders that they were perilously close to treason; His Majesty concurred; and the warrant was issued.

"That doesn't explain why you're here."

Beckett gave a deprecating smile. "It was the privilege of the East India Trading Company to be able to offer His Majesty the use of one of our Agents - myself - for a task which, in all delicacy, could hardly be handled by a fellow Naval officer. I'm sure that you can understand."

"And what fee did the East India Trading Company exact for this delicate task?"

"Fee?" Beckett shook his head in gentle admonishment. "One does not insult the king by demanding a fee. Likewise," he added, smiling in a manner that might have been intended to appear innocent, but was in fact remarkably close to that exhibited by a cat after consuming a saucer of the best clotted cream, "one does not insult the king by refusing an offer of exclusive trading rights, should it be made."

Norrington snorted. "Of course not. But why you? Why not some other Agent?"

"I? I was in London." Beckett walked around to the window and looked out into the harbour. His voice was a shade darker as he continued. "My father died several months ago, and I returned to England to assume control of the estate and take my seat. When it became clear that something would have to be done about this tragic sequence of events in the Caribbean, I cut short my leave of absence and offered my services to the Company. It was the least I could do."

"So what happens now?"

"Now? There remain other matters to be weighed up before I make my report to the Admiralty. They will have the final say, but I will have the care of you until such time as their decision is made known to me." Beckett continued in his walk and came around to the front of the desk again, leaning back on it as he resumed his speech. "As to the substance of my report ... I am sure that you are aware of the many nuances that one can attach to a narrative of this nature." He regarded his fingernails briefly before looking up. "You have brought me the heart of Davy Jones, Mr Norrington, an act which I may, upon further consideration, allow to be sufficient to make up for the distressing lapse in judgement concerning the pirate Jack Sparrow. That achievement may buy you your life, if the authorities in London agree to it, but not your freedom. There is a matter between us these many years that remains unresolved. I intend to resolve it."

Norrington looked at him, puzzled, before realising what Beckett meant. "You want revenge for Madras?"

"Of course I want revenge, you fool! Did you honestly expect me to offer you _absolution_?" Beckett swung himself off the desk and regarded his captive with icy disdain before dealing Norrington a blow across the face that sent him reeling to the floor. Beckett looked down at him with an expression of the utmost loathing. "I suffered at your hands. I was a boy of nineteen and you used me as a pawn for the sake of your petty wager. I was reviled and humiliated, for your sport and that of your friends. No, Norrington, you'll get no forgiveness from me. I'm going to extract every means of revenge that I have imagined in the last fifteen years. I'm going to make you wish you were dead. I'm going to make you wish you'd stayed with Jack Sparrow as his _cabin boy_."

Norrington looked up from his place on the floor, unable to rise for the shocking realisation of what Lord Beckett had in store for him. And if he had thought that scrubbing the deck of the _Black Pearl_ had been humiliation, he knew now that it had been but a mere taste of what he was going to have to endure.

Beckett smiled.

~~~~~

Mercer and one of the militiamen escorted him out of the room and up another two flights of stairs to the servants' and slaves' quarters, and walked all the way to the end of the corridor. Mercer unlocked the solid-looking door and ushered Norrington in.

It was a small room, with a plain wooden bed as its only furnishing. Attached to the outer, stone wall was a large, rusty iron ringbolt, with a pair of leg-irons attached by a six-foot length of heavy chain. Mercer attached the leg-irons while the militiaman stood guard. Only after they were secured and tested did Mercer take off the wrist-shackles, looping them neatly and stowing them in one of his capacious pockets before leaving the room and locking the door behind him.

Norrington stood silent, absently rubbing his wrists, as he looked around the room. There was little enough to see. There was a small shelf on the far wall, but no furniture apart from the bed-frame - no mattress, no table, no chair, no carpet, not even a chamberpot. _Nothing that could be used as a weapon_, he noted, grimly. He paced out the room as best he could, but the chain only allowed him as far as the end of the bed, and even at his furthest stretch he couldn't reach the shelf or the door. The small window had a few grimy and cracked panes of poor-quality glass, giving him a dim and distorted view of the world outside - which at present consisted of the stone walls of the house next door, a small patch of grey cloud and, looking down, the alley that ran between the houses. He tried to open the window but it was jammed shut. The air was hot and foetid, and he wondered how long it would be before anyone brought him water to drink. On second thought, though, he had no chamberpot, and had no desire to piss in a corner, so perhaps it was just as well.

He examined the bed-frame, but there was little chance of moving it or of breaking it up - it was of heavy wood and he could barely shift it with his shoulder. He gave the ringbolt and the chain a few tugs, but desisted once he had satisfied himself that the iron was nowhere near corroded enough for him to break. He sighed. The room had obviously been designed and fitted out as a private prison, and he would be lucky to leave it. He wondered what story Beckett would give the militia to explain his incarceration here - if, indeed, he bothered to give any explanation at all.

About an hour later, Mercer opened the door wide, allowing him to see the soldier stationed in the corridor before stepping in and offering him a leather tankard of water and a hunk of bread. There was no tray; no cutlery; nothing that could conceivably be broken or used against his gaolers. Norrington watched impassively as Mercer gave him a mocking bow and left, making sure that the door was locked once more.

He gave a moment of grudging respect for Beckett's foresight and intelligence, then set his mind to working out how he would escape.

~~~~~

He was left on his own for several hours, until the light had faded and the room was dark. He had found that he could stretch out comfortably on the bed, and had finally taken off his coat and rolled it up to use as a pillow. All in all, he was more comfortable than he had been for several days, though he still lacked water, a chamberpot, and something he could turn into a weapon.

He was roused from sleep by the door opening. Mercer entered, lantern in hand, and held it high as he checked on his prisoner. Norrington could have sworn that he cast a pitying glance down at him - but he was bleary-eyed with interrupted sleep and might have been mistaken. Mercer placed the lantern on the shelf and turned to face the door.

Norrington wasn't left in suspense for long. Beckett strode in, having discarded his elaborate coat and his wig. He looked older and less imposing without them; his closely-cropped hair was thinning on top and his figure was slight. There was strength in the shoulders, though, and in the thighs, and he recalled being told that Beckett had arrived in Port Royal on horseback. Norrington could see that he had the strength to control even a stallion, and he had no doubt that Beckett would make him suffer. At least he could see no weapon - he had been dreading a horsewhip or cat o'nine tails.

"On your feet."

He rose; slowly enough to satisfy himself, not so slowly that it could be cited as dumb insolence.

Beckett looked him up and down. He was obviously not impressed with what he saw. "You look dreadful and smell worse," he stated, lifting a handkerchief to his nose.

"Oh, I do apologise, milord," Norrington gave an elaborate bow. "I fear that the ablutionary facilities in prison are somewhat inadequate."

"Indeed they must be."

"Having had the time to make a thorough exploration of this room, I can advise you that the facilities here are equally inadequate."

"How shocking. I'll send someone up in the morning. For now I'll just have to put up with you dirty. Turn around. Mercer, the shackles, if you please."

Norrington turned to face the back wall, not really sure what Beckett wanted him to do. Mercer applied the wrist shackles, looping the chain through the frame of the bed, so that he was immobilised in hand and foot.

"Thank you, Mercer, that will do. I'll knock on the door when I'm ready."

Mercer bowed and left, closing and locking the door behind him. Norrington looked over his shoulder, and saw Beckett smiling like a fox left alone in a henhouse. He shuddered, inwardly, and hoped he'd be able to bear the pain with dignity.

Beckett reached around and undid the buttons on his breeches, pulling them down to his knees. A rustling sound indicated Beckett's own breeches being opened.

"Bend over," he was told, and he complied, no longer in any doubt as to his fate. Another backwards look revealed Beckett reaching into his pocket for a small stoppered bottle. As Beckett opened it and tipped some of the contents onto his hand, Norrington saw that it was some sort of oil, and relaxed a little. If Beckett was going to prepare him, it wouldn't be so bad.

Seeing his relief, Beckett snorted. "Be under no misapprehension, Norrington. This is to ease _my_ way, not yours," he hissed, and with a quick swipe to coat his cock he moved behind Norrington and thrust himself in.

Norrington managed to avoid screaming, but only by the greatest effort of will. It hurt. Oh, god, it hurt! It was agony - he was being ripped in two. He couldn't even form the words of a curse, he was in so much pain. He'd been sodomised before, once or twice, but never like this; never so roughly. The pain was even worse than when he'd been wounded. He tried to pull forward, to pull himself off the shaft that impaled him, but was hauled back by two strong hands on his hips, and Beckett thrust again.

As the pace increased, there was no pleasure for him, only pain and more pain. He was groaning at each thrust and panting between, and barely registered that Beckett was talking - quietly, almost to himself.

"I dreamed of this, you know, in those weeks after you left me in India. I spent hours imagining every sort of revenge upon you. I never thought it would be this good - so sweet." He adjusted his stance slightly and continued. "Godsblood, but you're tight! I was sure you'd been warming Sparrow's sheets, but maybe I was wrong. Have you been pretending, all these years? Have you been imagining yourself a proper gentleman with a good position and a fiancée and a prick that rises only for women? Do they know you like to bugger boys, Norrington? Do they know you like to suck on a good thick cock?"

Norrington made no attempt to answer - not that he could if he'd tried. Every ounce of strength, every sinew, was wholly consumed in the fight against crying out in pain. Even his vision had dimmed, and he was shaking, not with passion, but with effort.

Beckett shuddered and climaxed, giving a groan as he did so. There was peace for a blessed second, then another jolt of pain as he pulled out.

Norrington, trying to catch his breath, barely noticed Beckett moving. With no warning he was pulled up and twisted around. Beckett held his chin and then - most shocking of all - kissed him, full on the mouth. It was no gentle lover's kiss - it was harsh and forceful, a violation no less brutal than the rape that had preceded it. He fought for breath, but his mouth and nose were sealed by Beckett's face and he was suffocating. He thought, briefly of biting down on the tongue that was probing his teeth, but then Beckett let him go, and he staggered, exhausted. He held himself up by sheer will-power, determined not to allow Beckett the satisfaction of knowing how close he'd come to breaking down completely.

Beckett smiled at him - a sly, vulpine, cruel smile. "I knew you'd be worth the effort," he murmured, wiping his hands and cock with a plain handkerchief that he dropped to the floor with disdain, and then rebuttoning his breeches. "Consider this: that tonight has been only the introduction to your new life. I can and shall do this again and again, as often as I want, and there's nothing that you can do to stop it. Everything you do, you do at my will: you shall not drink, eat or sleep unless it be at my pleasure. You have no life beyond these four walls. Think on that, Mr Norrington. Until tomorrow."

He knocked on the door and was bowed out by Mercer, who unlocked the shackles and left without a word.

Only when he heard the door close behind him did Norrington let himself collapse down to the floor, feeling the throbbing of his arse and the wetness between his legs that he hoped was only oil and semen. He looked up at the window and tried his best to stop the tears from filling his eyes, but in vain.

~~~~~

He slept badly, tormented by pain and self-disgust. Finally, at dawn, he woke and lay motionless, looking out of the window at the brightening sky.

He was thirsty again. It seemed to have been a constant state for the last few weeks - first on that godforsaken island, evading Davy Jones' men, then in the longboat when he had drifted for days. There had been a brief respite on the East Indiaman, when he had been given a sailor's ration, but that had only lasted for as long as it took them to return to Port Royal, and then he'd been subjected to the privations of the cells in Fort Charles for three days before being brought here.

He imagined what it would be like to have a glass of cool water in front of him. It would be cold enough to collect a film of dew, clear enough to sparkle in the sunlight, and it would taste clean and pure, not brackish or tainted with slime. He could almost taste it, if he imagined hard enough ...

_It's no use_, he told himself. _You're only making things worse._

Instead, he went back to thinking about Cutler Beckett, and how the man had changed in the fifteen years since they had last met. He had only known the boy a couple of days, true, but he was sure that he had seen neither cruelty, nor self-absorption, nor cynicism. What had happened to him after that night in India? Had the story of his seduction by Norrington spread to the local company officials? Had Beckett endured months of humiliation and excoriation for his unwitting role in such an unsavoury exploit?

As for himself, he had barely given the incident a thought after the ship had left Madras. They had returned to England via Ceylon and Bombay, and after that he had been lucky to get a position in the Home Fleet before coming out to the West Indies. He had changed ship time and time again, always a new start, always moving up, until the day he had reached the pinnacle of his profession and his life had come crashing around his ears. That had been the day he had met Captain Jack Sparrow.

If he had known then what he knew now, he would not have hesitated to put a bullet in Sparrow's head that day, even at the risk of wounding Elizabeth. The man was a parasite: selfish and wilful; giving no regard to the demands of duty or the responsibilities of command; making use of everyone around him and giving nothing in return. The sooner the world was rid of him, the happier Norrington would be - and if he had to sell his soul to the East India Trading Company to accomplish that, then perhaps he would count it a bargain.

On the other hand ... he thought about Beckett's words the previous night: _Everything you do, you do at my will: you will not drink, eat or sleep unless it be at my pleasure_. It was not a reassuring prospect. If Beckett wanted him to die of thirst of starvation, there was nothing that he could do about it while he was chained to the wall. He had to find a way to escape.

He heard footsteps approaching from the corridor, and abandoned his cogitations. He hauled himself to his feet, prepared to greet Beckett with as much dignity as he could muster, in spite of the pain; but it was Mercer who entered, bearing another tankard of water.

Norrington resisted the urge to grab it and down the contents with one go. Instead he forced himself to sip it in a deliberate, elegant fashion.

Mercer watched him drink, as if waiting for him to finish.

"Am I keeping you from your duties?" he asked.

Mercer gave a small, thin-lipped smile. "Not at all, Mr Norrington. My duties today are to make sure that you are ready for his lordship if and when he decides he wants to see you."

"And does the term _ready_ include any reference to food, or am I to be kept on water rations?"

"It includes whatever his lordship wishes it to include," replied Mercer, in a dry, unperturbed tone. If Norrington had expected any further elaboration, he was disappointed: the man said no more.

Norrington sighed and sipped his water. It was clear that he would have little success in interrogating Mercer, who appeared to carry discretion to extravagant lengths.

As he handed the tankard back, he said, "I require a chamberpot, unless you wish me to piss in a corner, and Lord Beckett" - gods, how that name stuck in his throat - "stated that I would be able to wash and shave this morning. I trust that you will make the necessary arrangements."

Mercer looked a little taken aback, as if he had not expected the prisoner to assert his own authority so bluntly. "I shall arrange matters in accordance with his lordship's directions," he said, and then Norrington was left alone once more.

A chamberpot was provided few minutes later, and he used it the minute the door closed again, sighing with relief. He knocked on the wall, then shouted to the guards, hoping that it would be removed, but there was no response. He pushed it to one side with his foot and tried to ignore the smell. It was no worse than the ship's bilges, after all.

It may have been an hour later, it may have been three, when the door opened and Mercer entered once more, this time followed by three slaves. One carried a large jug, steaming with hot water, the second carried a matching bowl piled with towels. The third, a pretty dark- skinned maid, brought up the rear, holding a basket of clothing.

The slaves set down their burdens on the floor and retreated, leaving Mercer and the maid, who looked at him expectantly.

"Now then, Mr Norrington, his lordship has directed that you are to be washed and dressed. Let's be about it."

"I am perfectly capable of washing myself, thank you."

"But that's not what his lordship wants, is it? His directions were quite specific, and I intend to see that they are carried out."

Norrington recognised the single-minded implacability in Mercer's eyes and took off his shirt. Under Mercer's watchful eye, the maid began to wash his face and shoulders. The water felt delightful on his skin, warm and soothing, and if the situation had been only a little different he would have enjoyed it hugely. Being tended to by a pretty slave was a favourite fantasy of his - one that he shared with every other man in the Caribbean, he was sure - and it was ironic that now, when the fantasy was made real, he was completely incapable of taking advantage of the situation.

Once his upper half was clean and dry, he was handed a fresh linen shirt. He drew it on, revelling in the feel of the cloth against his skin - the first clean clothing he'd donned since Tortuga. He deliberately took his time over buttoning the sleeves, putting off the moment when he would have to remove his breeches and undergarments.

In the end, it wasn't quite as embarrassing as he had dreaded. Certainly neither Mercer nor the maid batted an eye at his nakedness, and the maid set about washing between his legs with a detachment that led him to believe she was no stranger to this quasi-intimate act. She wasn't even particularly horrified by the dried blood and other, more unsavoury substances there. He had to bite his lip as she washed his most intimate parts - the soap made the raw flesh sting - but otherwise he bore the ordeal with as much dignity as he could summon.

It was with a profound sense of relief, though, that he watched them leave the room, bearing all the bowls, cloths and towels. He eased himself back down onto the bed and lay there, his hands behind his head, waiting for Beckett.

His gaoler appeared in the early afternoon, looking cool and efficient in his shirtsleeves. He had been freshly shaved, and he wore a plain cravat and breeches. In one hand he carried a small vial - oil, presumably - and in the other another scented handkerchief.

The door closed, leaving them alone, and Norrington raised an eyebrow. "No shackles today?"

"Well, that all depends on you, Mr Norrington. I have a small task for you, and if you complete it successfully, you get to be prepared and oiled before I bugger you. If not, then I'll take you dry."

Norrington hesitated. It sounded too good to be true - which meant that there was a catch. "What's the task?" he asked.

"I want to you to stay absolutely silent for the next ten minutes."

Norrington opened his mouth to enquire why, then shut it again. He wasn't going to be caught out that easily.

Beckett smiled and nodded. "Very good, Mr Norrington. Now, unbutton your breeches and clasp your hands behind your back. Do not release them until I give you leave. Do you understand?"

Norrington nodded and obeyed. Beckett stood in front of him and slipped a hand inside his breeched to grasp his cock and give it a few long, slow strokes. In spite of his revulsion at his position, he found himself responding to the caress, and almost let out a groan until he remembered his task. _Stay silent_, he told himself. _You know that Beckett is only looking for an excuse_.

Well, he'd had plenty of practice at staying silent during this particular activity - whether at school or at sea, there was always someone within earshot, and he'd learned to bring himself off with scarcely a sigh. Surely this couldn't be any harder than that?

He'd reckoned without the force of nature that was Cutler Beckett's mouth. He couldn't help the intake of breath as it closed over his cock - it was a long time since he'd had anyone do this for him, and the sensation was so intense it was almost painful. He could feel Beckett's tongue swirling around the shaft, teasing him, bringing him to the brink faster than he would ever have thought possible. He gritted his teeth and held his breath as he came, determined to show Beckett that, although he was a prisoner, he was not a broken man.

Beckett looked slightly disappointed at Norrington's feat. He stood up and gave his captive with a keen, shrewd look. "Very good, Mr Norrington," he said at last. "I am impressed with your self-control. You may speak now."

Norrington opened his mouth, but there was really nothing to say. He certainly wasn't going to compliment Beckett on his talent, and he knew better than to insult him.

"Cat got your tongue? Oh well, I'm not here for conversation. Drop your breeches and bend over the bed."

Norrington hesitated, but Beckett drew the small vial of oil from his pocket and set it on the window-sill. "I'm a man of my word. Spread your legs."

Norrington complied and felt Beckett's hand reaching between his buttocks to apply the oil. He shifted his position to allow better access, and got an approving pat from the man behind him. Unfortunately, all the preparation in the world couldn't heal the bruised and tender flesh that the previous day's activities had left, and even though Beckett entered him slowly and smoothly, it was still intensely painful. He tried his best to relax, but there were tears in his eyes and blood on his lip by the time Beckett was fully inside him.

Thankfully, Beckett didn't take long to achieve his release, and withdrew as soon as he had finished. "There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked, wiping himself off with his handkerchief.

"It was less violent," was all that Norrington allowed himself to say. If Beckett was disappointed in his response he hid it well, merely pocketing the oil and walking over to knock on the door.

"Until tomorrow, Mr Norrington," he said as he left the room.

Norrington slumped back against the bed. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow ... endless days of torment stretched out before him like ripples on the ocean, his very own Sargasso Sea, and he had no choice but to bear it.

He looked around the room, but it was as empty as it had been yesterday. Now he understood the reason why the room was so bare - not to protect his gaolers, but to prevent him ending his life. Even so small a mercy was denied to him, and this, more than anything else, made him realise that he was truly lost.

  
**Chapter 2**

Norrington's melancholy cogitations lasted until the first rays of dawn crept through the narrow window. By then he had determined that the best way of ensuring his escape was to lull Beckett (and Mercer, he mustn't forget Mercer) into a false belief that he was a docile and willing slave. It would be hard to dissemble, at times, but he would do his best to give them no reason to confine him more closely. He would cease to argue, and he would do everything that was asked of him, except to give his parole. Then, when he was permitted some small freedom, he would take the first opportunity to escape.

Comforted by the development of a plan, he slept relatively undisturbed by the sounds of the house and town, until he was woken by Mercer and the maid. In a repetition of the previous morning's events, he was washed and dressed in clean linens and fed on bread and a hunk of cheese. After that he was left alone to await Beckett.

When his lordship appeared at his door, in the late afternoon, Norrington was standing beside the tiny window, looking up at the sky.

"What are you doing?" asked Beckett.

"Remembering mine affliction and my misery, the wormwood and the gall," replied Norrington, morosely, not even turning to face his captor.

Beckett paused a moment, then said "Lamentations, isn't it? The favoured text of prisoners everywhere. Would you like me to bring you a Bible? I didn't take you for a pious man, but stranger things have happened."

Norrington shrugged a shoulder. He wasn't a religious man - except, of course, when about to go into battle - but it might help pass the time.

"Turn around and look at me," ordered Beckett.

Norrington turned and looked. Beckett was in brown today, a rich brocade with subtle decoration, and his expression was milder than his stern tone had implied. In spite of the heat he looked cool and composed, though some inner turmoil was betrayed by the way his lips pursed and relaxed.

"Unfasten your breeches."

Norrington did so, promptly and without fuss, and then looked up, expecting further instructions.

Beckett walked over and examined his face carefully. Norrington did his best to look listless and despairing.

"I'm surprised that you don't try to fight me," said his lordship, curiously.

"What good would it do? I'm chained to the wall, and if I should free myself there are at least two militiamen in the corridor and several other servants in your house to whom you could call for help." He shrugged, letting his shoulders stoop.

"You've given this some thought, I see."

"Enough." He said no more - he wasn't going to let Beckett know everything he had considered in the last few days.

"I must admit that I expected a little more resistance - a little more of England's fighting spirit."

"A living dog is better than a dead lion."

Beckett smiled condescendingly. "Very true, Mr Norrington. But even a dog cannot live forever. Particularly one with a bad name."

He looked up at that. "Ah, so I _am_ to be hanged, then?"

"Are you so eager for it?"

"I'm eager to know, one way or the other."

"Your case is still under advisement. I wouldn't be too eager for an outcome, if I were you."

"Oh, I'm not eager at all. Given their Lordships' need to appease His Majesty and Parliament, I don't see any outcome for me other than a short drop and a sudden stop."

"You sound remarkably undismayed about it."

"I find the prospect of being hanged at some stage in the near future to be somewhat liberating. It frees me from the normal considerations of polite society and good manners."

"And yet you tell me this, and put me on my guard."

"I doubt that you ever drop your guard."

Beckett's face darkened. "Never. I learned quite early on in my career that everyone wants something from me. Even the most innocuous encounter can be a trap."

"If that's another reference to Madras - "

"Actually, no. But I shan't elaborate."

"Suit yourself."

There was a short pause, then Beckett shook his head, as if to rid himself of the unwelcome memory. "Take the breeches down and bring out your prick." He watched Norrington do that, and added, "That's right, give it a few strokes." He reached forward to grasp it, and Norrington couldn't resist a small taunt.

"You like my cock, don't you?" he whispered. "You're fascinated by it."

Beckett showed him what he thought of that idea with a tight, painful squeeze.

Norrington grunted, then said, "You're not exactly endearing yourself to me, you know."

"It is better to be feared than loved."

"It is best to be respected."

"Perhaps. But I'll settled for feared. It gets the job done. Now turn around and bend over. And don't think you're going to get any oil today."

Norrington sighed and gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain to start.

~~~~~

On the third day of his captivity, he remained seated on the bed, hands behind his head, as Beckett walked in.

"And how does this fine day find you?" asked his lordship in a merry tone. When Norrington made no reply, he halted, and regarded his prisoner with some surprise. "You know, I do expect you to greet me with some degree of respect."

Norrington kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "Why should I pander to your desire for attention? You're going to fuck me again no matter what I do. It's going to hurt, as it always does. I'll spend the rest of the day wondering when my next drink of water will appear. And tomorrow we'll do it all over again."

Beckett pursed his lips in annoyance.

"Oh, let's just get it over with, shall we?" Norrington stood up and started to undo his breeches, but was stopped by Beckett's command.

"Not so fast. I've a mind to try your conversational skills today."

Norrington stilled. "I fear you will find them sadly depleted," he said, refastening the single button he had undone. "I have had little contact with polite society in the last few months."

"I take it that you do not class your recent companions as _polite society_."

"A pirate and a blacksmith? Hardly."

"And yet you joined them voluntarily."

"The alternative was an early death in a tavern in Tortuga. And I had a hunch that whatever Jack Sparrow was hiring men for, it was more than just another run around the Spanish Main."

"So you turned pirate."

"Not for long."

"Mercer tells me you gave him an interesting though somewhat far-fetched tale of drawing off Davy Jones' men to allow the others to escape."

"I'm not interested in going over old history."

"But I am, and I'm the one in charge. Was it to pay off a debt, perhaps? Or some misplaced burst of chivalry?"

"Damn your eyes, Beckett! It's none of your business!"

"Temper, temper. Hmm," he mused. "Chivalry, then. I imagine that Miss Swann may have been involved." After pausing to allow for Norrington to answer, he went on, "Yes, I think she must have been there. An intriguing creature. It was a most educational experience to meet her."

"She got the better of you, I heard."

"She negotiated with confidence."

Norrington laughed. "She negotiated with a pistol at your head."

Beckett clenched his fists but said, mildly, "An enterprising young woman."

"Indeed she is."

"You still admire her? After what she did to you?"

"She did nothing dishonourable."

Beckett snorted. "She discarded her fiancé, ran off with a bunch of pirates, and ended up betrothed to a blacksmith. She followed that up with escaping from prison and was last seen dressed in breeches in the middle of a tavern brawl in Tortuga. Hardly the actions of a modest young lady, are they?"

"You insult her, sir!"

"Do I? Are you still so purblind with love for her that you can't see she used you? Is there nothing she would not stoop to do?"

Norrington was overtaken by a wave of anger. He couldn't deny that Elizabeth's behaviour was not that one would normally expect of a young lady of quality, but he wasn't going to stand by and let Beckett destroy her character with impunity. He leapt forward, and managed to throw Beckett to the ground, hearing his lordship's head hit the floorboards with a satisfying thud.

Unfortunately, Beckett retained enough of his senses to roll out of Norrington's reach and slowly brought himself to his feet. His wig had come off in the fall and lay some feet away, on its side, revealing his own close-cropped hair. He picked the wig up, looking it over and brushing off a little dirt before placing it back on his head.

"That was a mistake, Mr Norrington," he said, calmly, as he brushed more dirt off his shirt. He looked down at the prisoner on the floor, who was straining forward against the leg irons that held him chained to the wall. "You disappoint me. I thought you had conquered that temper of yours. Since you prefer brawling like a schoolboy to conversing like a gentleman I shall punish you as I would a schoolboy." He went to the door, rapped sharply, and gave a rapid set of orders to Mercer, while Norrington slowly retreated to the window and rubbed his legs where the irons had bruised him.

Mercer entered, carrying the shackles and Beckett's riding crop, and Norrington's temper flared again. Gone were all thoughts of placating his gaolers - he wasn't going to stand by and let himself be whipped.

He struggled violently, hitting and kicking as best he could, but in vain - the long weeks of privation had weakened him, and he was no match for Beckett's strength and Mercer's steely grip. In short order he was bent over, shackled to the bed, and Beckett was tearing the shirt off his back.

"Twelve stripes. Mr Mercer, if you please," said Beckett, his breathing still slightly uneven.

Norrington took a deep breath and prepared himself to take the blows in silence, but he still couldn't hold back a gasp at the first blow. By the seventh he was gritting his teeth and clenching his fists so tightly he knew he'd drawn blood from his palms, and by the twelfth he was dizzy and sick with the effort of holding still.

He'd lost count of the blows, but Mercer hadn't, and twelve stripes were all he took. Then he was swiftly unshackled and pushed back against the wall, so that he was facing the two men.

Norrington groaned at the impact and made no effort to stand straight. He kept his face turned away, not wanting Beckett to see how much it had affected him.

Beckett's voice was cold and measured. "Do remember what I said to you on the first day, Norrington? Everything you do, you do at my will. My will now is that you shall be left alone to contemplate your sins until tomorrow. No food, no water and no comfort."

He kept silent, though he couldn't stop one bitter tear from escaping his tight-shut eyes. Through his misery, he could hear Mercer saying, softly, "I think you've broken him, milord."

Beckett smiled, dreamily. "You know, I rather think I have."

Norrington listened to them go, waiting until the door was shut and locked before allowing himself the luxury of sobbing silently, like a lost child.

~~~~~

The night was uncomfortable. The thrashing wasn't the main problem - he'd had much worse as a schoolboy and as a midshipman. No, it was the humiliation that stung more than the stripes on his back - the fact that he, a grown man, had been thrashed by the servant of a man two years his junior and six inches inferior in height, and a merchant to boot.

He winced as he moved. It might not have been the worst he'd had, but it was bad enough, and he couldn't get comfortable, no matter what position he tried. The wounds were still smarting and he cursed Beckett once more as he gritted his teeth against the pain. He'd have given almost anything for brandy laced with laudanum, or even some cool water, but he was unlikely to get either.

He was furious with himself for his outburst - he had probably set back his escape plans by days, if not weeks. How could he have let Beckett's taunts get to him? It wasn't as if the man had said anything that Norrington hadn't thought himself. The girl was an adventuress, and if she survived long enough to achieve a marriage and a veneer of respectability, it was more than she deserved. He should have held his tongue. He should have had had more self-control.

Mercer visited him early the next morning, bringing him water (two mugs - the man had some compassion, after all) and a repetition of the washing ceremony. This time, though, he lay on his front while Susan washed and dressed the stripes on his back, applying some soothing ointment.

That afternoon, when Beckett strode into the room, riding crop in hand, Norrington was careful to give him no excuse to use it. He obeyed every command and suffered every degradation in silence, not even moaning when Beckett's hands inadvertently pressed on the worst of his wounds.

"Very good, Mr Norrington," was Beckett's only comment. "It seems that one can teach an old dog obedience, at least."

His dinner that evening included three slices of mutton - the first meat he'd been given since landing at Port Royal. He forced himself to eat it slowly, licking every trace of fat from his fingers. He knew it was a reward for his cooperation, and he hated himself for it - but meat was meat, and he needed food if he was going to survive to escape.

He wondered what else he'd have to do in order to be released from this room.

~~~~~

And so his life in captivity entered a new phase. Every day Beckett had some small task for him - to stay completely silent, or completely still, or to respond in some manner to whatever Beckett was doing to him. If he failed, he was punished by being taken dry, or by being left shackled by wrists as well as ankles until his body screamed with the unaccustomed contortion. If he succeeded, Beckett rewarded him with meat or wine. He quickly learned to simulate the demeanour of a broken man, and to do what pleased Beckett, though it sickened him, and as a result he was spared the humiliation of the crop.

In the long hours between torments, he was nearly in despair. He had no expectation that his confinement would end before the Admiralty decision arrived - and even then, he had no hope of a reprieve. The promise of redemption, which he had so blithely quoted to Sparrow, seemed further away than ever.

The first time he came with Beckett's shaft inside him he cried. Not then and there, of course, but later, when he was left alone in his cell. He'd felt humiliated - even more so than usual - and Beckett had been so pleased that he'd actually said that he could have a glass of brandy with his dinner. Norrington thought about throwing the glass in Mercer's face, but what good would it do? He was still chained to the wall and getting weaker by the day. Instead, he took his time, drinking it slowly while Mercer stood and watched. It was good French brandy, and deserved to be treated with respect, which was more than he could say for his captors ... or himself.

~~~~~

Then came a week when Beckett made no appearance. Perversely, Norrington missed him. Bad as his attentions had been, at least his visits had provided him with hours of occupation, whether it was in replaying the gruesome events of the past visit or in anticipating the next. Now he had nothing to bemoan or to dread, and he wondered, disconsolately, if Beckett had gone away or was just ignoring him. He refused to ask Mercer, and no one else entered his attic cell, so he remained in a state of agitated ignorance. At least he was still fed and watered.

He found that his intellect was atrophying in boredom - even more so than the worst of the days in Tortuga. The alcohol there had dulled his senses and made him unaware - or at least uncaring - of what was around him. Here, there was nothing to distract him and no rum or wine to ease the passing of the hours. He found himself drifting through the day, not even daydreaming, just staring out of the small window for hours on end.

It said something for his state of mind that he didn't even notice when he became feverish. The attic, always humid and unpleasant, had seemed a little cooler the last couple of days, but he'd put it down to the change of season and lack of exercise. It wasn't until he woke, shivering and cold to his very bones, that he realised he was ill. He tried to get up but found that he was already too weak to move. He couldn't even raise his voice loud enough to be heard. He wondered if he was dying. He wondered how much time it would take to die, and how long it would take anyone to notice.

Events after that became blurred. He had scattered memories, interspersed with hallucinations, and it was hard, sometimes, to tell which was which. He was fairly sure that being prodded by Mercer was real, and that the terrifying shape that leered at him from the shadows in the far corner was a phantom, but there were other things that were not so easy to tell. Had he really been held down and forced to drink a bitter poison by the servants? Had he heard Beckett chastising them for not informing him earlier? Both were possible, if unlikely. It was much less likely that the man had thundered and roared at them like a dark avenging angel, though that was what he thought he remembered. He was fairly sure, as well, that the memory of Beckett's hand stroking his forehead was his imagination.

It didn't really matter for the moment, anyway. He drifted off, into another fever-dream, in which he was being carried down to hell by a troop of devils. Hell seemed surprisingly comfortable when he got there.

~~~~~

He woke, some time later - he couldn't be sure if it was hours, days or weeks - in a bed, a real bed, with linen sheets and a fine quilted counterpane. There was daylight visible through the shutters, and the sounds of Port Royal were clearly audible from the busy street below. He felt comfortable and warm for the first time in months. He lifted his head slightly and looked around the room, but he appeared to be alone. He wondered if there would be a guard outside the door.

There was a glass of water beside the bed, and he reached for it, noting with chagrin that he was as weak as a kitten. Guard or no guard, there was very little chance that he'd make it as far as the door, let alone out into the street. He sank back against the sheets, exhausted by his feeble effort, and in only a few minutes was fast asleep again.

He roused again a couple of hours later (as near as he could determine), and listened to the local physician, Dr Teesdale, discussing his case in low tones with Lord Beckett. The words made little sense and he drifted off again almost immediately.

~~~~~

When next he woke it was late afternoon. His room obviously faced south, for the golden light poured in through the window to his right and hit the far wall. The dark-skinned maid who had washed him in the attic was sitting and sewing at a table by the window. She made a little humming noise as she worked, and if he listened hard he could make out some noises from the house or the street. His mind appeared to be much clearer, though he still felt drained of all energy.

He cleared his throat, startling the maid into silence. She looked at him, then quickly rose and went to the door. After a hurried conversation she closed the door and returned to her seat, but she did not resume her work.

He was damnably thirsty, and the glass of water was out of his reach. "Water," he croaked. The maid looked frightened, but didn't move. "Water," he tried again, this time making an attempt to point to the jug.

She understood, and poured him a glass of something that resembled barley-water, holding it to his lips as he drank. He was, if anything, even weaker than he had been the last time he awoke, and could barely lift his head off the pillow. He sank back after taking a couple of sips, simply unable to hold himself up any longer.

The door opened, admitting Beckett. The maid at once rose and curtsied to her master, then fled at his dismissive gesture. A footman closed the door behind her, leaving the two men alone.

"So, you are awake," Beckett regarded him with the air of a scientist viewing a successful experiment. "The doctor said you would probably regain your senses sometime today or tomorrow."

"I'm glad to have fulfilled his expectations." Even those few words exhausted him, and he hoped that Beckett wasn't expecting witty conversation.

"I think you've disappointed him, actually. He didn't like the cure we were giving you."

"What was that?"

"An infusion of Jesuit's Bark."

The words meant nothing to him in his present state, though he had a feeling he'd heard them before. He gave a small nod, and closed his eyes; he knew it was discourteous, but he simply didn't have the strength to keep them open any longer. He heard Beckett approach the bed, and wondered if he had angered his gaoler. To his astonishment, however, Beckett merely placed a hand on his forehead, murmured something to himself and then left the room.

He woke again, some hours later, and lay with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the house and the street. Susan had returned and resumed her needlework. She helped him drink more of the barley-water, and once, as dusk fell, insisted he drink another of the bitter infusions. Jesuit's Bark, Beckett had called it. Now, with his mind becoming clearer, he remembered where he'd heard the term before - it was for relapsing fevers, such as were common in hot and humid climates.

Beckett called in again before dinner. Norrington had enough strength to lift an eyebrow at the man's attire - he was in full ball dress, with a rich coat of dark blue silk, an embroidered waistcoat, heavy lace at his neck and wrists, and silk stockings embroidered in gold. He was wearing an ornate wig, powdered and dressed to set off his features to perfection, and carried a lace handkerchief in his left hand. He walked over to the bed, the sword at his waist clinking softly against the belt.

"I believe I am getting better," said Norrington, without preamble.

"Good," replied Beckett, promptly. "I would hate to have to explain your untimely death to the Admiralty, should they require your presence in London.

"Oh, I doubt they'll want to see me again." He sounded more confident than he felt, but hastened to change the subject. He waved vaguely at his surroundings, saying, "To what do I owe the magnificence of my current accommodation?"

Beckett smiled. "To the charity of the East India Trading Company, of course ... and my reluctance to allow you to depart this life just yet."

"I'm touched by your solicitude."

"Think nothing of it."

"I'll do my best, believe me. I cannot believe, however, that you treat all your prisoners so well when they succumb to fever."

"Of course not, but then most of them are the scaff and raff of humanity. You at least were born a gentleman."

"Before being irretrievably coarsened by my life in the Navy?"

"I would never be so ill-mannered as to suggest such a thing. Now that you have raised the matter yourself, however, I feel it my duty as your host to point out that naval customs do not necessarily fit one for a life at court."

"Nor does life in a counting-house, Beckett, so don't pretend you were born to a coronet." He shifted position. "When do I return to my attic?"

"Well, now, that rather depends."

"On what?"

"On various matters - matters that we will discuss when you have recovered."

Norrington tried to work out the meaning behind Beckett's words, but it was far too fatiguing an effort. He tried once more to sit up, but failed. Sighing, he went on, "So where are you going, in all your finery?"

"Mr Pratchett's Annual Plantation Ball."

"Ah, yes," Norrington gave a rueful smile of reminiscence. "Gallons of punch, some very inferior champagne and an endless stream of dim-witted maidens hoping that you'll ask them to dance. You have my sympathy."

Beckett looked amused. "I shall conjure up that thought whenever I feel obliged to make polite conversation with yet another simpering girl - I have Mr Norrington's sympathy. I'm sure it will assist me to bear up under the strain."

Norrington smiled, in spite of himself. "I sometimes wonder why no man of sense has ever run you through."

"But what good would that do? I am assured by many people - yourself among them - that I have a heart of solid stone."

He smiled - really smiled - and Norrington felt a disturbing feeling somewhere in his gut.

Beckett turned to go, saying, "Do try not to die before I return."

Norrington laughed in spite of himself and settled back down, watching Beckett as he negotiated his way out of the room. The man had quite a neat turn of ankle, and his calves were set off nicely by the red heels to his shoes.

Damn this fever - it was giving him the strangest ideas.

* * *

He woke the next morning with a much clearer head, though he was still weak and unable to stand unassisted. He swallowed another draught of the bitter infusion, and followed that with the far more pleasant barley-water.

Dr Teesdale visited him, and claimed his survival as a triumph of modern medicine. "Astonishing what these new-fangled cures can do," he said gruffly. "Time was when a good poultice of fresh-killed pigeons to the feet would have done, but now there's nothing for it but infusions here and tinctures there, and before you know it there'll be no doctors left, only herbalists."

Norrington didn't comment. He had little time for doctors or apothecaries, and had always avoided the ship's surgeon unless forced to attend. He was of the opinion that most wounds and illnesses would take their pre-determined course, and that there was precious little merit in doctors or their medicines. Tried and true remedies were one thing, but there was too much experimentation going on these days - as if they didn't already know everything there was to know about the body.

Still, he had to admit that the Jesuit's Bark had had a remarkable effect in bringing him back from the brink of death, if the nightmarish visions he had experienced were any indication. Whether his new life would be less of a nightmare than the old, though, was a question that he could not answer. For the moment, it appeared that Beckett was happy to indulge him in the pretence that he was an honoured guest, and so he remained in bed, recruiting his strength, in anticipation of the moment when he would be able to make his escape.

~~~~~

Norrington was slow to recover, plagued by headaches and dizzy spells and a profound weakness that made shackles unnecessary. He caught sight of his reflection in the window-glass three nights later, and was shocked by his appearance - his skin was pale, his face was gaunt, and his eyes seemed to have sunk into his head. He held out a hand (also pale, also thin) and watched as the mild exertion caused his arm to tremble after only a few seconds.

In other ways, however, his life improved after the fever. He remained in the guest room, was fed three times a day, and was even allowed to wash himself, though it appeared that shaving was a function deemed too dangerous for him at present. Norrington doubted he could have wrested a razor from a palsied child, let alone from Proudfoot, Beckett's wiry but strong valet, but he didn't blame them for being cautious. Lord Beckett took to visiting him twice a day, usually accompanied by Mercer, and they exchanged a few barbed pleasantries before Beckett continued on to whatever engagements he had.

He was permitted to read, and Lord Beckett supplied him with books and pamphlets to while away the daylight hours. He was surprised to be handed Tillotson's sermons - he had not thought that Beckett would be a pious man - but even though the sermons were widely admired, he soon set them aside in favour of _The Iliad_, in a new English translation. Beckett had recommended the volumes warmly, though of course he could not resist the temptation of saying that the original Greek was infinitely more rewarding.

He could not concentrate for long periods, though, and spent many an hour simply sitting or lying in bed, looking up at the ceiling. He tried to talk to Susan, the maid, who was often given the task of watching over him, but she was shy and timorous, and would barely speak a word in his company. He watched her covertly with half-closed eyes, noting how she seemed wholly engrossed in her stitching. Though he resented her presence, he was never tempted to harm her: she was as much a captive as he, and had far less chance of ever escaping her present situation.

After only three days the extent of his boredom was such that he offered to assist her with her sewing. She had been setting seams in an endless sequence of shirts, handkerchiefs and pillowcases - all plain work, no decoration at all - and he saw an opportunity to help her and to relieve his own monotonous existence at the same time.

It took some time to persuade her to let him try a pillowcase, but once she had seen how neat and small his stitches were, and how straight his seams, she had little hesitation in accepting his help. She became a little more communicative as they worked together, and told him some interesting tales of life below-stairs that he had never suspected in his time as Captain and Commodore.

Norrington was examining a particularly neat seam in a linen tablecloth when Beckett walked in on them one afternoon, and he had the pleasure of realising that for once he had astonished his captor. He refused to be embarrassed by his discovery in the act of sewing, and merely set down the piece of cloth on his lap.

Beckett picked it up and examined the row of neat stitches before returning it. "Norrington, you are a man of unexpected talents."

"Every naval officer learns to sew." At Beckett's expression, he shrugged and added, "There are no seamstresses on ships, you know, and climbing spars and yards is hard on clothing."

Beckett turned the piece over in his hands. "Are they all as capable as you?"

Norrington shook his head. "I have a fairer hand than most."

"And do you embroider as well as you set a seam? Do you knit? Do you weave?"

Norrington stuck his chin out. "You are making sport of me."

"Not at all. I'm merely curious to explore more of your talents." The guileless look that accompanied the words was not lost on Norrington, but he resolutely ignored it for now.

"I can embroider, a little, but I find the work tedious and the product useless. Plain sewing suffices for me."

Beckett looked at Susan. "But I find use for embroidery - or at least, for an embroidery maid, don't I, Susan?" he chucked her under the chin, and she lifted her eyes briefly to his before dropping her gaze to the floor again.

He patted her gently on the cheek. "Run along now, child." he ordered, and she hastened off, pausing only to shut the door behind her.

"Do you bed her?" asked Norrington, astonished. The girl had appeared far too innocent to appeal to his lordship's jaded palate.

"Indeed I do," replied Beckett, with an air of mischievous satisfaction. "Every Sunday morning before going to church." He tried to look pious. "There's nothing like a good rogering to set one up for a lengthy sermon. Besides, it reassures the servants."

Norrington stared at him, flummoxed. In the past twenty years he'd heard men give many excuses for taking servants to bed, but _reassuring_ them was new to him. "In what way?"

"Oh," Beckett gave an airy wave of his hand, "that their master is a man with all the normal appetites - and accoutrements. They do get these absurd ideas about white men, you know - that we are built differently, that we are deformed under our clothing. I suppose if one is always clothed when the natives are accustomed to varying stages of nakedness, there is always idle speculation on what might be hidden under waistcoat and breeches. They wouldn't believe me or Proudfoot, but they'll believe Susan.

He grinned, slyly, and continued. "It serves another purpose, as well. If their master should choose to spend time with other men, there is no reason for anyone to think that there is more to it than business or talk, when everyone knows he fucks the maid religiously every week. In fact, I may have inadvertently given rise to the belief that vigorous sexual congress is a pre-requisite to partaking of the sacrament in the Christian church. I cannot but think that the Reverend Thompson would be shocked if he were ever to learn of it. Pray remember his sensibilities and do not mention it to him."

Norrington laughed, in spite of himself. "I won't."

Beckett grinned back, looking for all the world like a mischievous schoolboy. He was absurdly attractive when he smiled, and Norrington found it disconcerting. He was glad when Mercer turned up to call his master to some new engagement, leaving him at peace.

When Susan returned, she bore another of glass of the bitter infusion for him, and a more pleasant draught to follow it, and he thanked her. She was a pretty thing, for someone so dark, and she had an easy grace that was entirely lacking in the English girls of his acquaintance. He didn't blame Beckett for taking advantage of her charms - in fact, he envied him, especially when he contrasted it with the more business-like arrangement he had had with a discreet widow living across the harbour in Kingston.

~~~~~

As the Agent of the East India Trading Company, Beckett was busy most evenings, either dining with what passed for society in the town, or playing host to visiting ships' captains, hoping to gain a little more influence for the Company.

As Norrington grew a little stronger, and was less inclined to sleep for eighteen hours a day, Beckett started to call in after his return from these functions. He was often flushed with drink, though no one could have called him inebriated, and became positively chatty. He would pass scathing comments on those unfortunates with whom he had spent the evening, forcing a smile to Norrington's lips as he recognised many of the people he had known in his former life as one of the colony's senior Naval officers. Beckett's pithy remarks revealed an uncanny knack for spotting the weaknesses and foibles of those he met, and it wasn't until much later, when Beckett had gone, that Norrington wondered what Beckett might had said about him - and to whom.

Early one evening, about ten days into Norrington's convalescence, he was surprised by the entry of a slave bearing a large tray, which was set on the small table in the corner. He was followed by another, who busied himself in setting covers for two, and then by Mercer, who bore the wine. Finally Beckett himself entered, still in his relatively plain working dress, and gestured to Mercer.

Norrington was assisted out of bed and into a lightweight silk dressing-gown before he could make his way slowly to the table. Beckett sat opposite him and nodded to the servants, who proceeded to serve them as though this were nothing out of the ordinary.

They chatted in a desultory fashion during the meal - a modest one, by any gentleman's standards, but of good quality - and it wasn't until Mercer reappeared with a bowl of punch that Norrington realised Lord Beckett meant to stay the evening.

Beckett produced a pack of cards from his pocket and smiled. "Piquet, whist or écarté?" he asked, cordially.

Norrington hesitated before answering. Truth to tell, he wasn't much good at any of them, and he had nothing to wager. "What stakes?" he asked, cautiously.

Beckett gave a fox-like grin. "Worried, Norrington? You shouldn't be. You have nothing of value, so we'll play only for points."

"And what are the points worth?"

"My, my, you are a suspicious little officer, aren't you? Reassure yourself. The points are points only, not redeemable by currency or ... or by other means."

Norrington inclined his head, grateful for the clarification, even if it had been accompanied by yet another insult. "Whist, then." It was the least complicated, and he doubted he would be able to give Beckett a good game even then. After only one hour out of bed he was already drowsy, and he'd been plagued by a headache most of the day.

Beckett nodded, cut the cards and dealt the first hand.

At the end of play, Beckett was the clear winner, with a margin of several hundred points. Norrington apologised for his poor performance.

"I fear that this wretched headache has robbed me of my usual wits." He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the pain, which had become much worse with the effort of concentrating on the cards.

"Are you still troubled by that?"

"In the evenings, mainly. It improves daily, but I imagine that it will be several weeks yet before I am completely recovered."

"Hmm." Beckett rang the bell and the footman appeared a short time later. "Tell Proudfoot to fetch me my laudanum from the cabinet in my chamber."

The footman bowed and left. Beckett and Norrington chattered desultorily until the appearance of Proudfoot.

"The laudanum, milord," he said, bowing slightly.

"Excellent. Add a few drops to Mr Norrington's wine, he has the headache."

Proudfoot nodded, then looked to Norrington for permission. At Norrington's acquiescence, he took the half-full glass of wine and added ten drops of the reddish liquid, then held it out. Norrington looked at it for a few seconds, swirling the wine around to ensure that the laudanum was fully distributed, then tossed the contents of the glass down his throat. He was agreeably surprised to find little of the usual bitterness, and made comment to that effect.

Beckett looked pleased. "It is Sydenham's preparation," he explained, "a most agreeable mixture."

"Indeed. In what manner does it differ from the usual tincture of opium?"

"I have no idea. Proudfoot, do you happen to know Mr Sydenham's secret?"

Proudfoot, re-stoppered the bottle tightly and said, "I believe, milord, that the tincture is made with sherry and flavoured with spices. More than that I could not say."

"Very well, Proudfoot. You may return the bottle to the cabinet."

Proudfoot refilled Norrington's glass with fresh wine, bowed, picked up the medicine bottle and left the room.

Norrington made a mental note to discover the exact whereabouts of Lord Beckett's medicine cabinet.

  
**Chapter 3**

Depending on the press of business, Beckett continued to call on Norrington in the afternoons, before he departed to change for dinner or whatever function he was engaged for that evening. They played cards, usually, but also talked, for hours at a time, on subjects as diverse as the classics and the latest society gossip, which reached them through the now-regular East India Trading Company ships. Norrington was surprised to find that Beckett was widely-read and could find an apt quotation to suit almost any occurrence.

On one such afternoon they had become so involved in play and conversation that Proudfoot came looking for his lordship to enquire which clothes he wished set out for that evening's function.

Beckett bit his lip. "Oh, it will have to be the blue damask, I think. And the new wig."

"The gold waistcoat, milord, or the cream?"

"Gold."

"Very good, milord." Proudfoot bowed himself out.

"What is it this evening?"

"A ball. Sir George Standfast."

"Well, at least his wine will be relatively good."

"Thank heavens for that. I was beginning to think that they all had their palates addled by rum. I don't think I've had a decent glass of wine since I arrived in this god-forsaken island except it came from my own cellar."

"Too true, alas." They played another hand in silence, then Norrington said, "I'm surprised that you haven't given a ball yourself, to show off the magnificence of the East India Trading Company."

Beckett looked mildly incredulous. "But how can I give a ball when I have no one to act as hostess? Had I a wife - or even a sister - with me, I should have given one, of course, but as it is I am restricted to hosting the senior planters and merchants to dinner and conversation."

"I can see that it is a great misfortune to you."

"Well, it is an inconvenience. Never underestimate the power of the memsahib - the wives," he added, for Norrington's benefit. "You would be astonished to find that the most truculent of merchants is as putty on the hands of his wife. I have learned the value of paying close attention to these matters."

"I'm sure you have. But surely you do not talk of trade matters with wives?"

"Of course not! But it is truly a marvel to see how a judicious word of flattery to a plump matron, or a few flowery compliments to a plain daughter can tip the balance in favour of the company when it matters." He grinned, conspiratorially.

Norrington couldn't help but smile back. "You are truly a student of Machiavelli," he murmured.

"Why, I thank you. There is many a man who would benefit from the study and understanding of his works. There are far too many who believe that there is nothing worth learning after the death of Augustus."

"That sort would not rise far in the Navy. Latin and Greek may have their place, but our very lives depend on invention and new information. Imagine how we would go astray if we limited ourselves to the maps drawn by the Greeks or Romans! We need the very latest charts and measurements if we are not to run our ships aground. And the recent refinements to our navigational instruments have proved invaluable - the chronometer, for example, allows us to estimate our longitude when used in concert with trigonometry. I find it fascinating that the length of a day is not a constant when travelling east or west."

Beckett waved a hand. "Alas, I leave such matters to the ships' masters."

Norrington shrugged. He loved the intricacies of calculation himself, but he recognised that it was an interest not held by many people. Instead, he changed the topic to one that he predicted would be of more immediate interest to Beckett. "So, do you fear match-making mamas?"

Beckett smiled. "No more than the next man. I must marry some day, of course, and sooner rather than later, now my father is dead, but there is no real urgency, and I am not eager to change my state in the immediate future. I confess, however, that the interest in my putative matrimonial prospects is keener here than in was in India. I suspect that my accession to a minor barony may be the cause of that."

"Undoubtedly. It never ceases to amaze me that, in a woman's eyes, a title - no matter how minor - can overcome the most serious deficiencies of in a man's intellect, looks or income."

"A sad but true statement. You may have noticed that the same phenomenon attaches to rank in the navy or the military."

"Not always," he said, as the thought of Elizabeth - so beautiful, so lively - arose in his mind's eye. He still loved her, and suspected that he always would. It still hurt to know that she had chosen a penniless blacksmith over him.

~~~~~

The next day, Beckett stormed into the room and poured himself a glass of wine, tossing it down his throat as if it were water.

Norrington essayed a wry smile. "Pratchett again?" he asked.

Beckett nodded, his face sour. "The man gives me no peace at all. He wants to use East India Trading Company ships to take his goods to London to sell through his own agents there - as if we would stoop to act as common carriers!"

Norrington almost laughed at the man's indignation.

Beckett continued. "I've told him I'll buy his crop outright, but he doesn't like my price. No matter. We are no ordinary trading company, and he'll find out soon enough that the situation has changed considerably from last year."

At Norrington's enquiring look, he explained further. "His Majesty has granted the East India Trading Company _exclusive_ trading rights for the next decade. If Mr Pratchett thinks he can send his sugar to London via any other ships but ours, he is mistaken. And my price for his crop will go down with every passing week." He sighed, then gave Norrington a beatific smile. "It may not be quite a gentleman's sport, but I find that trade is just as exciting as hunting or gaming."

"If I am to understand you, it is indeed a form of gaming: you wager against both the markets and the vicissitudes of weather."

Beckett looked delighted with that summation, and nodded his head in agreement. "Indeed we do, Mr Norrington, indeed we do. Our stakes are high, but the profits can be stupendous for those who can read the markets and the Exchanges."

"I take it that you have been more successful than most."

Beckett gave a sly smile. "I have had some success, yes. Enough that I may look forward to a comfortable old age and a degree of influence at court when I return to England. I may even improve on my father's efforts and purchase myself a viscounty."

"That will no doubt bring the maidens flocking."

Beckett made a face. "If I have to marry, I'll marry well, and Viscount Beckett will do much better than a plain baron."

"You are ambitious."

"Why not? There's no disgrace in wanting to improve one's station in life."

"I suppose not." Norrington wondered if his own station in life would ever improve. So far they had carefully avoided any discussion of his current status. He hadn't been given any orders, and he hadn't ventured any petty disobediences. He hadn't tried to leave the room since he'd woken up there more than a week before, and he'd resisted the temptation to call for help from one of the windows that looked out onto the busy street.

He had no doubt, however, that he was still a captive. Now that he was able to rise from his bed for an hour a day, Beckett had stationed a pair of militiamen outside the door - he glimpsed their blue and gold livery whenever Beckett entered or left the room. Never mind that it would be at least another fortnight before he could walk more than a few yards without collapsing. Beckett was being cautious, and that meant he had to be equally cautious ... and equally adept at dissimulation.

~~~~~

The next morning, Beckett strolled in before noon, obviously direct from the stables. He did not appear as much to advantage in the plain brown jacket as he did in his embroidered coats, but he was slim and well-proportioned, if still shorter than the average, and he was attractively flushed from the exercise.

Norrington, already semi-hard from a dream that had involved him, Beckett and Elizabeth, in varying states of undress and wantonness, found himself taking a sudden, unexpected inhalation. He coughed, hoping that Beckett hadn't noticed either his gasp or his erection.

"How are you this morning?" he enquired.

"Much improved, thank you."

"Excellent."

There was pause, and Norrington saw Beckett's gaze flicker to the bedclothes, which were slightly tented over his groin. He felt himself flushing, and manufactured a fit of coughing to give himself a reason for a red face. It also allowed him to change his position, sitting up slightly and rumpling the bedclothes so that the offending protrusion was disguised.

"You should come riding with me one morning," Beckett said blandly, though the twitch of his lip and the hint of a smug smile betrayed the fact that he was quite aware of what Norrington doing.

Norrington raised an eyebrow. Prisoners were not normally - in his experience, at least - invited to go riding with their gaolers. Apart from the risk that he would take the horse and bolt, there was the likelihood that they would be seen together, and that might engender some talk, since he hadn't been seen in the town since his departure for Tortuga many months ago. "I am an indifferent rider, I fear," he stated, calmly, "and would not appear to advantage beside you. You would be forever urging me to catch up, and scolding me for walking around obstacles that any novice would find easy to jump."

Beckett laughed. "I think you underestimate yourself, Mr Norrington. I am sure that you are a competent rider, if unpractised. I shall not insist, however, but shall leave it to you to change your mind if you wish." He approached the bed, his eyes taking in the outline of Norrington's body. He trailed a hand up Norrington's leg, brushing over his groin (and smiling a little as he felt the hidden erection stirring under his touch), and then up his abdomen. He took hold of the bedclothes and pulled them back, revealing Norrington's body, barely concealed by a linen nightshirt. He gestured, and Norrington, to his own amazement, found himself pulling up the nightshirt, baring himself to the waist.

Beckett nodded his approval. "I have first-hand experience of your talents in another form of riding, however, and I can say, quite honestly, that they are exceptional." His hand closed around Norrington's cock, and this time Norrington didn't even attempt to disguise the gasp. A few slow strokes, a thumb brushing over the tip, and Norrington lay back, all voluntary thoughts and actions negated by the intensity of the sensations flooding through his body. Oh, the man had skill! If only he would keep doing this, Norrington had no doubt he'd agree to anything he wanted.

He was starting to move his hips in response, and spread his legs a little, hoping that Beckett would take the hint and stroke his balls. Instead, Beckett's hand moved up to the head, where beads of fluid betrayed his eagerness. Long, elegant fingers massaged the foreskin and smeared the sticky wetness over the emergent head. It felt wonderful, but he wanted more - he wanted that firm hand around his shaft; he wanted fingers fondling his balls; he wanted, above all, that sweet mouth closing around him. He'd beg, if necessary - he was beyond shame at this point.

Without warning, Beckett withdrew his hand. Norrington gaped at him, trying to work out why he'd stopped. As awareness returned, he registered the sound of voices below, and realised that someone had come to call on the Agent.

Beckett looked annoyed. "That'll be Mr Pratchett. He said he would call on me today. Again." He rose and touched the tip of his finger to his tongue. "Hmm ... interesting." He fetched a handkerchief out from a pocket, shaking it out with a flourish and then using it to wipe his fingers clean. "I expect to be closeted with the tedious Mr Pratchett for at least an hour. When I finally free myself of his presence, I am going to be in urgent need of some ... release." He looked around before dropping the handkerchief on the table.

The doors opened, and Norrington scrambled to pull up the covers.

Mercer, giving no indication that he had seen anything out of the ordinary, addressed himself to Lord Beckett. "Mr Pratchett has called to see you, milord. I have shown him to the study. I believe that Proudfoot has your lordship's change of clothing laid out ready for you."

"Thank you, Mercer. Tell Proudfoot that I shall be there directly."

Mercer bowed and left, closing the doors behind him. Beckett leaned in close to Norrington and spoke in a low voice. "When next I enter this room, I expect to be able to drop my breeches, climb onto the bed and enter you in one long thrust. I also expect you to be ready for me. I suggest you use the time wisely." He straightened up and walked to the door, turning back to say, "Don't think you can bring yourself off now and then recover. I want you to be hard for an hour, and I'll know if you've disobeyed me." He left the room without another word.

Norrington contemplated his situation for a couple of minutes. The door was unlocked, but he remained too weak to run away. He would have to submit again and hope that it wouldn't be too painful. He rang the bell, and Susan, the maid came in to see what he wanted.

Norrington paused. Heaven only knew that this was going to be difficult enough to say, without letting Beckett's mistress know that his lordship was planning on taking him as a catamite in less than an hour. But he needed oil, and someone would have to get it for him.

He cleared his throat, and said, very rapidly, "I need some oil."

"What's that?"

She obviously hadn't understood. He tried again, a little more slowly and clearly. "I need some oil."

"Some oil?"

Norrington nodded.

"What sort of oil?"

"Any type of oil. For - for skin."

"For skin?"

"Yes. For ... " he forced himself to say the word, "for Lord Beckett ... for Lord Beckett's pleasure." He closed his eyes, mortified beyond belief.

Susan, by contrast, seemed unperturbed by his embarrassment. "Oh, you want his Sunday morning oil," she said. "I'll get that for you, don't you worry."

With that, she left, leaving him to the task of maintaining his erection until she returned, some minutes later, and placed a small vial of amber oil on the bedside table. "You want me to put it on you?" she asked.

"No!" he cried. "That is ... no, I can manage on my own, thank you."

As soon as the door had closed behind her his hand went under the bed clothes and pulled up his nightshirt again. His shaft was hard, the head gleaming. He wanted to bring himself off - he wanted that so badly it almost hurt - but he had no doubt that Beckett would be able to tell if he did, and he had no wish to incur any more punishments.

Sighing, he picked up the oil, poured a little onto his fingers and started the slow and laborious process of stretching himself.

It wasn't quite an hour later that Beckett returned. Norrington had need frequent pauses in his preparations, and had only just reached the fourth finger when the door opened and his lordship walked in, calm and serene in appearance.

Beckett's calm façade disappeared the moment the door closed behind him, and he looked lasciviously at the sight in front of him, one hand palming himself through his breeches, the other tugging at the buttons that secured the garments to his frame. He freed himself and approached the bed. "On your hands and knees."

Norrington complied quickly, trying to tell himself that it had nothing to do with any eagerness on his part; he simply believed that it was not the right moment to test Beckett's limits of self-control.

Beckett sounded pleased by his captive's obedience. "I've just spent an hour with the most boring man in the whole of Jamaica," he muttered, climbing onto the bed. "The only thought that kept me from throttling him was the knowledge that I'd be doing - this - as soon as he left." So saying, he placed his cock against Norrington's arse and gave a slow but steady push until the head broke through, then paused, caught his breath and slid himself home.

Norrington surprised himself by giving a groan of pleasure as Beckett entered him. It didn't hurt nearly as much as the previous times. It wasn't only that he'd had time to stretch and oil himself; it was also that Beckett wasn't quite as brutal as he had been in the first few days. As Beckett gradually increased his pace, his erection, which had only flagged slightly, revived and became another source of stimulation as it brushed against the sheets.

They moved in counterpoint, each one adjusting to the other, until they achieved a perfect rhythm, in and out, through and around, each perfectly complementing the other's movement.

Beckett slowed his pace, as if he wanted to prolong their pleasure, and Norrington was ashamed to hear himself whimper. He tried to lift a hand to pull on his cock, but it was batted away and replaced by Beckett's hand, which gripped him firmly and squeezed so that he groaned.

"That's right, James," Beckett whispered behind him, "moan your pleasure for me. Tell me I'm the best you've ever had."

God help him, he did, just before he climaxed, long and hard, making truth out of his lie.

~~~~~

The following day, an East Indiaman arrived in Port Royal, and as a result Beckett was exceptionally busy, discussing business with the captain for much of the afternoon. Norrington didn't see him until the evening, when he called in only to say that he was off to dine with the captain and other dignitaries. Norrington told himself that an evening without his captor was something to be relished, and tried hard not to feel lonely as the evening progressed with nothing but his own thoughts for company. Even the inestimable prose of Mr Pope could not compare with Beckett's caustic wit and shrewd commentary on the foibles of the human race as exhibited in Port Royal.

As the night dragged on, and Beckett did not return at his usual hour, Norrington realised that he was becoming anxious. _He's a grown man, _he chided himself_, and he's certainly capable of spending a few hours with his colleagues without getting into trouble._ He forced himself to concentrate on his book, and only gave up when the candles started to splutter beside him. He fell asleep and dreamed of buggering Beckett over the helm of the _Dauntless_.

It must have been well after midnight when the door opened and Beckett entered the room, dressed only in his nightshirt and carrying a single candle to light his way. Norrington woke up with a start and blinked at the light of the flame.

"Oh, good, you are awake." The candle was set down on the bedside table and Beckett climbed in. Norrington moved over without a word, somewhat astonished at the man's calm expectancy of cooperation.

"To what do I owe the honour of such a late visit?" he asked, more calmly than he felt.

"I'm feeling bruised. The food was bland, the wines were execrable and the company was worse. Pratchett was imbecile enough to air his grievances against the company, and it took a great deal of self-control on my part not to run him through on the spot. Then Standfast made some joke about his daughter wanting to become Lady Beckett - as if I'd marry a snaggle-toothed girl who can barely see three feet in front of her face! I cannot believe the man's insensitivity." He sighed. "Now all my senses are disordered, and I can't sleep."

"What do you want me to do? I'm neither nursemaid nor physician."

"No, but a good shag will go a long way to making me feel better."

Norrington thought about refusing - he wasn't shackled, after all, and might just be able to crawl his way out of bed - but, as usual, Beckett forestalled him, saying, wearily, "Don't fight me, Norrington, not tonight. It's just a shag. I'll even prepare you, if you want."

Norrington shrugged and rolled over, pulling up his nightshirt. "Be generous with the oil. And don't thrust in so fast - I want to have a moment to adjust when you enter me."

If Beckett was surprised by Norrington's instructions he gave no sign, just reaching for the oil he'd left in the drawer beside the bed.

His fingers were surprisingly gentle as he prepared Norrington, liberally coating his fingers with oil before inserting them, stretching the delicate skin carefully and thoroughly. He eased himself in with much less force than usual, and Norrington tried his hardest to stay relaxed.

"Oh, I needed this," breathed Beckett as he started to move. "You feel so good."

Norrington, for once, had to agree. A non-violent Beckett was a truly skilled lover, and he allowed himself to relax and enjoy the sensations that washed over him. His own climax preceded Beckett's by about a minute, and he marvelled at how deep and intense it felt. When Beckett collapsed on top of him, he was actually smiling to himself, but he managed to bring his expression under control before Beckett moved and he could roll over.

To his surprise, Beckett did not rise and seek his own bed, but curled up against him, one arm over his chest. He lay, motionless, trying to work out if he should sleep himself, or if he should stay awake so as to rouse Beckett before the servants came up in the morning.

"Stop thinking, James. Sleep."

He gave a mental shrug. They were Beckett's servants, after all, and he appeared to trust in their discretion. In any case, it would probably be Susan who came in first, and she already knew, so there was little to be gained by worrying.

Beckett's thumb brushed over his collarbone. "Sleep."

He obeyed, and slept peacefully through the night, though he was gratified to find that he woke at dawn and was able to convince Beckett to return to his own bed before the servants found them.

~~~~~

After a few more days, Norrington had improved in strength to the point where he spent most of the day on the chaise longue that lay along the bay window. He sat there for hours, looking down over the wharves and the street, keeping to the shadows so that no one could see him. He knew that his presence in the house was to remain a secret for the foreseeable future, but it no longer troubled him. At one stage he would have recklessly taken the chance to broadcast his plight to the passers-by below, but his fever and the consideration that Beckett had shown him since he had been brought down from the attic had mellowed him, and he was content to lie and observe. Once he had his strength back, then he'd think about escape. Until then, the best thing he could do was to remain quiet and allow his body to recover, however long it took.

Beckett continued to visit during the day as well as at night, and their conversations grew in depth and breadth. Beckett was well-read in the classics and the newer works of literature, but he had little interest in philosophy or science. Norrington, on the other hand, had only such knowledge of the classics as he had managed to acquire in his brief years at school, but he had a passion for science and eagerly devoured the volumes of the _Proceedings of the Royal Society_ that Beckett managed to procure from the Reverent Thompson. In spite of their divergent interests they found much common ground, and it was not unusual for Proudfoot or Mercer to have to come and call his lordship away to some engagement, so engrossed were they that the passage of time had gone unnoticed.

Late one afternoon Beckett came in to find Norrington lying on the chaise longue, dozing in the golden light. There was no longer any need for Susan to sit with him - he was strong enough now to get around the room on his own - and Beckett took full advantage of their privacy to slide a hand underneath the dressing-gown and fondle his cock.

"Good afternoon, James, you look well-rested."

"Hmm," Norrington gave a sleepy smile and stretched.

Beckett gave a smirk and leaned forward, saying, "One of these days I'm going to bend you over that window-sill and bugger you in view of the entire population of Port Royal."

"Always the exhibitionist."

The laconic reply was not what Beckett was expecting. He cocked his head to one side and regarded Norrington with a disappointed air. "You're not afraid of me any more."

Norrington stopped himself from grinning. He wasn't afraid of Beckett as things stood at the moment, but there was always the possibility that Beckett could order him back to the attic and the daily torment he had endured there - or, worse, ask for his parole. "Do you want me to be?" he asked, as neutrally as possible.

Beckett thought about that for a minute before shaking his head. "No. Not at the moment, anyway: I find your insolence more amusing than your subjugation."

Norrington heaved an inward sigh of relief, but it was a timely reminder that this fragile semblance of freedom depended on the caprice of his lordship, and that the privileges he had enjoyed since his recovery from fever could be withdrawn at any minute. He had to find a way to escape.

He'd think about that later. For the moment, he turned his attention to the very interesting way in which Beckett was coddling his balls, and hoped that they wouldn't be interrupted until they had reached a mutually satisfying conclusion.

~~~~~

Ironically, it was Beckett's own headache that revealed the whereabouts of the medicine cabinet and, more importantly, the key that unlocked it. They had been playing cards again, this time in Beckett's bedchamber (where he had summoned Norrington earlier that afternoon), but the sultry air and his late return from a dinner the night before had combined to make Beckett's head ache, a fact which he grumbled about until Norrington told him to take some laudanum and lie down for a while.

"I don't take laudanum during the day."

"Why not?"

"It makes me sleepy."

"Well, you're hardly awake now. I'm about to beat you and you know how bad I am at these card games."

Beckett regarded the points sourly. "You're winning."

"I know. Tragic, isn't it?"

"It's more than a tragedy. I hate losing at cards."

"You hate losing at anything."

Beckett grinned. "True." He stood up and pulled the bell-cord. It was Mercer who responded, and Beckett frowned. "I rang for Proudfoot."

"Your lordship gave him the afternoon off."

"Did I? How tiresome. I ought to have known I would need him." He dismissed Mercer, saying, "No matter, Mr Mercer, I'll manage on my own." He pulled out a small ring of keys from his pocket, and sifted through them until he came to the one he wanted - a small plain key, with nothing to mark it from its fellows but a red woollen thread knotted through it. He stood up and turned to the large armoire that stood along one wall, before abruptly turning back to Norrington and ordering him out of the room.

Norrington went without protest. It didn't matter, after all - he'd already learned the two pieces of information he needed. Unless there was some peculiar oriental trap to the medicine chest, he could open it with the key from Beckett's pocket and take whatever medicines he wanted \- including laudanum.

~~~~~

It was another three nights before he was able to put his plan into effect, and during that time he was very careful to give no hint of what he was planning. He feigned a continuing lethargy, and took to sleeping later in the morning. He cautiously started to exercise a little \- difficult in the confines of his room, but not impossible. He was still weak, in truth, but not quite so much as he pretended.

That night, Beckett dined in his own chamber, engrossed in reading some papers that had just arrived from England, and summoned Norrington to attend to him there. He remained somewhat distracted during the meal and explained that there had been several ships attacked by pirates in the past few weeks, and he was concerned about an overdue convoy from England. They discussed the pirate problem (carefully avoiding any reference to the _Black Pearl _or Jack Sparrow) and the success of the measures taken by King George and the Royal Navy in reducing the numbers from several thousands down to a few hundreds. Tortuga remained a problem, of course, but it was easily contained and, after all, it was better to have all the miscreants in one port rather than scattered throughout the islands.

With Beckett so distracted, it was easy for Norrington to ply him with drink and "accidentally" brush his fingers across Beckett's hand as he reached for the glass. It had the intended effect - Beckett soon insisted on bringing conversation to a close and dragged Norrington onto the bed, where he proceeded to demonstrate that the best part of two bottles of burgundy had no effect on his stamina whatsoever. Following his release, however, he quickly dropped off into a deep sleep, and Norrington took the opportunity to extract the small key from his coat, open the medicine cabinet and add several drops of laudanum to the remaining wine.

After that, it was simply a matter of rousing Beckett sufficiently for him to pour more wine and drink it, and then to tuck him up gently in the large bed as his sleep deepened into a stupor.

A scant half-hour later Norrington was dressed and making his way quietly down the back stairs to the kitchens. He unlocked the door, lifted the latch, stepped through and closed it behind him. He crept down the stairs to the alley that led to the main road and the wharves. With luck he'd be able to find a ship or a boat to carry him away before the hue and cry was raised. He had gold in his pocket and a knife at his waist, and would do whatever he had to do to get away.

He scanned the harbour, wondering which, if any of the vessels would be most suitable for him. The pickings weren't good. He looked the whole length of the wharves and sighed - one merchantman and a few dinghies, but nothing in between. He decided to check the point, where the buccaneers and fishermen sometimes careened their boats. He cut back through the alley and headed down the High Street, keeping to the shadows as he headed west. He reached Fisher's Row without encountering anything more sinister than a cat, and looked down over Turtle Crawls. Nothing - at least, nothing seaworthy. All the small vessels that would best have suited him were out, probably fishing.

He sighed. He didn't want to go back to the house - there might never be another opportunity to escape. And yet, there was no point in taking a rowing boat - the furthest he would get would be across the harbour neck, and he'd be lucky to survive a week, even if he didn't get killed by the Maroons.

Something glinted in the corner of his eye and he turned at once. At first he could see nothing, but then, out of the water, he caught a flash of moonlight on metal, and gasped. A ship was pulling around the point, and not a ship that he recognised, either. There was something not quite right about it - apart from the fact that merchants and naval vessels berthed in daylight - and he cursed as he realised that it was pirate or privateer. Not the _Black Pearl_, thank the Lord, but a pirate ship nonetheless. How she had sailed into the harbour without being spotted from Fort Charles he had no idea, but that was no longer his problem.

He watched the ship for a few moments, feeling the wind, and realising that there was no way she'd be able to come alongside with the ebbing tide. She'd have to lower the boats and row her men in if they wanted to attack, and that gave him a few more minutes to plan. He reviewed the options that lay open to him: he could slink away and hope to avoid both pirates and marines; he could throw in his lot with the pirates, betray the town and hope to live long enough to enjoy whatever portion of plunder was allotted him; or he could raise the alarm and hope to return to live through the ensuing attack.

There was one further complication: Beckett was drugged and unconscious, and would be useless for several more hours. There was no way the man was fit to defend himself or the house. Loath as he was to return, or to assist the East India Company in any way, Norrington could not, in all conscience, leave Beckett helpless to face a mob of pirates. He'd seen the aftermath of pirate attacks, and he knew that a man of Beckett's position, if found defenceless, would suffer the full brunt of their brutality. He couldn't leave him to face that. There was something particularly distasteful about the thought - it was the sort of thing a pirate would do. It was something that Jack Sparrow would do. No, Norrington would not stoop to that level, not even if it meant a thousand more thrashings.

The creak of the blocks drew his attention back to the ship. The boats were being lowered and he knew he had to make a decision now. Sighing to himself, and cursing his bad luck and his sense of honour, he turned around and started to retrace his steps. He'd have to hurry - the house was one of the largest in the town and was certain to be among the first to be attacked. He had at most ten or fifteen minutes before the pirates could reach the town, and he'd need every second.

He ran back along the side streets, no longer caring who saw him, and let himself in through the side door, locking it and sliding home the heavy bolt - not that it would prove to be much use against an axe. He made his way quickly up the stairs and into the main landing. He really had to find Mercer, but he had no idea where the man slept.

He shouldn't have worried. With Mercer's uncanny knack of being precisely where he was needed most, he appeared from nowhere and spoke in a low voice, "Out for a stroll, Mr Norrington?"

"Yes, I was," snapped Norrington, "and a damned good thing, too. There's a pirate ship hove to in the harbour and the boats will be alongside any minute. The town must be roused."

"Pirate ship? Is it Sparrow?"

"No. Well," he elaborated, "it's not the _Black Pearl_, at any rate. More than that I can't tell."

"I'll wake Lord Beckett immediately."

"I'll do that - you get the weapons."

Mercer raised an eyebrow, and Norrington bristled. "Oh, for heaven's sake, man, I came back, didn't I? I won't harm him."

Mercer gave him an appraising look, then nodded and moved off. Norrington ran up the stairs to Becket's room, finding his lordship just as he'd left him, but now snoring softly. Norrington shook his shoulder, but there was no response.

"Wake up," he said, shaking the man a bit more vigorously. "Wake up, Beckett."

Beckett groaned and opened his eyes blearily. "Wha-?"

"Wake up! There are pirates in the town! We're under attack!" He slid an arm under Beckett's shoulder and helped him to a sitting position.

Beckett gave a lazy smile of recognition. "Norr... Nongt'n."

"Yes, it is I. Now, will you wake up? We have to fight."

Beckett smiled drunkenly and turned his head, pressing his lips to Norrington's cheek. "Come back to bed."

Norrington cursed. Laudanum had obviously addled the man's brains, and there'd be no sense in him at all until it wore off, which might be several hours. He certainly couldn't fight in this condition - he would have to be hidden away safely, so the pirates couldn't find him.

He hauled Beckett out of bed, ignoring his protests, and dragged him into the small dressing room. Beckett's clothes were neatly arrayed on shelves, his gorgeous coats hanging from wooden coat-hangers along the back wall. Failing a priest's hole, it was the best he could do for the moment.

Just then he heard a commotion downstairs and realised that the pirates had broken into the house. Hoping that Mercer had managed to get away to raise the alarm, he dragged Beckett behind the coats and huddled with him in the corner. Ears straining for signs of the pirates' approach, he tucked Beckett's feet in close, hoping they wouldn't be seen, hoping that the pirates would be fooled.

Beckett leaned against him, boneless and weak under the influence of laudanum. His eyes tried to focus on Norrington's face, but what it was that he actually saw, Norrington had no way of telling. Beckett smiled sleepily, like a small child, and turned to rub a cheek against Norrington's coat.

Heavy footsteps were coming closer. They entered the room and Norrington could hear them searching through the bedding and furniture. He held on to Beckett tightly, hoping that the man would stay quiet.

Of course, Beckett had to choose that moment to give a little giggle. It wasn't much - just a soft, warm chuckle - and Norrington prayed that the searchers had been making too much noise themselves to hear it. Nevertheless, he placed a hand over Beckett's mouth, hoping to quiet him. The next minute he had to stifle a cry of his own, as Beckett's tongue slid over his fingers, a warm, wet, wriggling feeling that was as disconcerting as it was unusual - at any other time he would have called the sensation delightful, but in the present moment it was a distraction he could ill afford.

Beckett startled to struggle, and Norrington removed his hand, gingerly, pressing a finger to the man's lips, hoping that Beckett would feel it and understand, hoping that he'd be quiet. Beckett was smiling dreamily, relaxed, sprawled over Norrington's lap like a limp rag, wanton and willing. He looked years younger - so closely resembling the eager boy he'd been in India that Norrington felt himself stirring in spite of himself. He cursed under his breath and tried to ease himself surreptitiously. He couldn't afford to become aroused now - there was work to be done and escapes to be planned, and no man in the world could run with an erection the size of a bow-sprit in his breeches.

As Beckett mumbled something and gave another chuckle, he pressed his hand over the man's mouth, but Beckett again started to struggle. Norrington had to think of something, fast. In desperation, he pressed his lips to Beckett's, hoping that a kiss, combined with whatever dream the man was having, would keep him quiet. Beckett gave a hum of contentment and opened his mouth, his tongue teasing at Norrington's.

For the next few minutes, the world could have ended and neither man would have noticed. The kiss was everything that Norrington had been dreaming of - soft, open, sensuous and delicious. He lost himself in the exploration of Beckett's mouth, tasting him, learning him, feeling him.

He felt Beckett's hand stroking his cheek, briefly, before it fell back as he succumbed once more to his drugged sleep. The lips became slack, the eyes closed, and he turned his cheek into Norrington's shoulder.

Norrington let out a sigh of relief. The room had fallen quiet and he hoped that the searchers had proceeded through the mansion while his attention had been diverted.

He was mistaken: all at once the door to the dressing-room opened and someone began rummaging through the clothes and effects. Whoever it was approached the back of the room, and Norrington held his breath. Beckett, unfortunately, did not, and his soft snore attracted the attention of the searcher. The coats were drawn aside, and Norrington looked up into the reddened and scarred face of a pirate.

"Oh ho!" the man crowed with delight. "Nobby, look what I've found!"

"What?" The second man entered and stood behind his companion. "Ooh, what do we have here?"

"They were hiding behind the coats."

"So they were, Jemmy, so they were. Let's get them out where we can have a little chat." Nobby held a pistol in his right hand and a sword in his left. He kept the pistol aimed at Norrington while the two men were hauled to their feet and prodded through to the bedchamber. Norrington had to place an arm around Beckett's waist to assist him to stand and walk, and even then the man slumped against him.

"Now, then, which of you two is Lord Beckett?" asked Nobby

Norrington glanced at his companion, but he doubted that Beckett had even heard the question. He looked the pirate in the eye and said firmly, "I am." He hoped fervently that he could carry off the imposture for the minutes or hours that would elapse until the marines could fight their way back to the house.

Unfortunately, the pirate didn't look as if he believed him at all. He was shaking his head sadly. "Now, we was told that Lord Beckett is a fine gentleman, but wery short. This gentleman what is swooning in your arms is short. You, on the other hand, is wery tall. And furthermore, you is dressed in plain linens and he is in a dentical fine nightshirt. I think you was trying to lead us astray."

"Astray, that's right," said the other pirate. "But Nobby's too smart for that, see."

Nobby nodded. "Smart, see. That's what matters." He glanced at the half-conscious Beckett and asked, "I would say you're one of his lordship's servants."

Norrington sighed, but there was little to be gained in trying to explain the precise nature of his position in Beckett's household - the more so as he didn't really know himself. "You're right, I'm a servant here. I was just trying to protect his lordship. He's not well."

"What's wrong with him?"

"A contagious fever." Norrington wasn't sure if they'd believe this lie, either, but it was worth the attempt.

Unfortunately, Nobby was smarter than he had anticipated, for instead of looking afraid, as Norrington had hoped, or even coming close and allowing Norrington to make an attempt on his weapons, he gestured to his companion. "Jemmy, you put your hand to his forehead and see if he feels feverish."

"Why me?"

"Because I'm holding the pistol, that's why."

"But what if he's got a fever? What if I catch it?"

"He hasn't got a fever, Jemmy. That's just this feller trying to bamboozle us."

"Oh." Jemmy appeared to be thinking about Nobby's explanation. "You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Now just you do as I told you and put your hand to his forehead."

Jemmy stepped forward, somewhat hesitantly, and touched his hand to Beckett's forehead. "He don't feel feverish to me."

"There, what did I tell you? This feller's trying to frighten us off, but we don't scare so easy."

"No, we don't."

Nobby dragged the ornate chair from its place beside Beckett's writing desk and gestured to Norrington, making sure that the pistol was aimed squarely at his midriff and staying well out of reach. "You set him down here, then stand back."

Norrington complied, seeing no alternative but cooperation for the moment. As soon as he had set Beckett down he was pulled away and dealt a savage kick in the guts by Nobby. He doubled over, gasping for breath, and took a second blow to the kneecap. He collapsed to the floor, in agony, and barely heard Nobby saying, "That's for lying to me twice, you low-born scum." He watched Norrington for a few more seconds then directed Jemmy to drag him to his feet. "Now, Jemmy, you make sure you keep your sword at this feller's throat while I question his lordship."

Jemmy raised his sword and moved to stand just behind Norrington, holding the blade close to his throat, effectively preventing him from making any attempt to escape or to help Beckett. Norrington knew he'd be useless for several minutes anyway, and stood as still as he was able, trying to catch his breath and ease his bruised muscles.

Nobby turned his attention back to the man in the chair, gripping his chin tightly and tilting his face up. "So, my pretty, are you Lord Beckett?" There was no reply, and Nobby responded by giving the man a harsh slap across the face.

The pain appeared to revive Beckett a little, and when the question was repeated, he answered, curtly, "Of course I am, you dolt. Who else would I be?"

The answer appeared to satisfy Nobby, who smiled and said, "Well then, your lordship, you'll no doubt be holding the keys what will open the treasure chests of the East India Trading Company."

"There are no treasure chests."

Nobby hit him across the face again. Beckett made no sound, but his eyes burned and Norrington realised that the pain was bringing him out of the laudanum-haze faster than any cajolery on his part could have done. Furthermore, Beckett was now blazingly angry, which did not bode well for the pirate in front of him, no matter how advantageous might be his current position.

"Every company has treasure chests," said Nobby, almost sorrowfully. "They'll be in the cellars, like they always are. Now, you hand over the key to the treasury, nice and easy like, and we'll let you go. Can't say fairer than that."

Norrington hurried to interject. "Don't listen to them, _milord_, they'll take your keys and then cut your throat for sport." He grunted at a retaliatory blow from his captor, and hoped that Beckett would understand all that he had implied.

"Thank you, _James_, I am well aware that criminals are rarely trustworthy." The words were cutting, but they reassured Norrington that at least Beckett had recovered his wits.

"Criminals, he calls us. That's harsh, that is." Nobby shook his head. "We're adventurers, just like you are, hostages to fortune."

"I doubt that our fortunes are remotely comparable."

"Well, that's just it, you see. They aren't. We aim to balance our fortunes by taking some of yours and adding it to ours. Now, are you going to tell us, or do we have to beat it out of you?"

"Damn your eyes for impudence! I'll see you hanged from the highest gibbet in Port Royal and your rotting corpse caged in irons for a year!"

Nobby flashed in annoyance. "You didn't ought to have said that." He reached into a pocket and fished out a short length of rope, knotted twice three inches apart. That both Norrington and Beckett recognised it at once could be told only from their complete stillness.

Nobby laughed at Beckett's discomfort. "You've seen the Rosary before, I'll wager."

"I've seen its results," he said, drily, his eyes fixed on the rope.

"Then I don't need to tell you how painful it is, how it can squeeze a man's eyeballs from their sockets, and pop the very bones of his skull, then, do I?"

Beckett turned a little paler, but his voice was firm as he said, "Not at all. I am quite familiar with the principle."

"And will you change your mind now, my pretty lord, and give me the key before I make you a beggar and a cripple?"

"Never, damn you to hell!"

Nobby gave a ghastly grin and handed his sword over to Jemmy, who shuffled them both closer. Now Jemmy was standing behind Norrington, his right hand holding a knife to Norrington's throat, and his left hand holding the sword that forced Beckett to hold his chin high.

The two Englishmen looked at each other. The thought that it might be the last time they saw each other alive could not have escaped them, but neither betrayed the smallest weakness in their demeanour. Then Nobby put the rope around Beckett's head, and he closed his eyes as the knots pressed into his sockets. Nobby pulled the ends tight and started to twist them, increasing the pressure on Beckett's eyes and skull.

Beckett remained silent throughout the torture. Norrington was impressed at his fortitude. He did not think that he himself could have withstood the pain and terror and knowledge of what would happen with so much composure. Beckett's fists and jaw were clenched tight at the pain, but he did not move or make a sound.

Norrington cast a covert glance at his captor, who had relaxed his hold somewhat, his attention wholly engaged by the spectacle of torture enfolding in front of him. The avid gleam in his eyes sickened Norrington, but he swore to make use of the man's inattention before Nobby could inflict irreparable damage upon Lord Beckett. In a trice he had twisted and thrown the man to the ground and he gave the pirate such a kick to the head as would have him seeing stars for a week. He wrenched the sword from the man's hand and turned to Nobby, who had let go of the Rosary immediately, believing, with some accuracy, that Norrington proved the greater danger.

Norrington threw himself at the pirate, trusting in his speed and agility to overcome the man before he could draw his knife or pistol. In this he was successful, but not entirely so, for as they fell to the ground the pirate twisted in his grasp and evaded his hasty gropings. To his horror, Norrington found himself looking down the barrel of a primed and cocked pistol. He sat back, slowly and carefully, on his heels.

Nobby glanced at his colleague in infamy, now lying insensate on the rich carpet and swore a vile oath, after which he took careful aim at Norrington's head and pulled the trigger.

  
**Chapter 4 **

Instead of the flash and the explosion and instant loss of consciousness that Norrington had expected, he heard a dull click. He recognised it immediately - a misfire - and leaped forward with a renewed vigour, knocking the pistol out of the man's hand. Nobby was not so easily bested, however, and they rolled on the ground, both of them trying with some desperation to reach the hilt of the long knife at his waist.

It was a messy, dirty fight, with no rules and no finesse. Norrington had his hand on the knife hilt for two seconds and tried desperately to pull it out, angling the blade into Nobby's leg as he did so. Nobby yelled and wriggled himself around until he forced Norrington's hand away, then tried himself to pull out the knife, a difficult task given that he was pinned to the floor. Just as it appeared that he would succeed - the knife was half out, and Norrington was desperately squirming to try and move his body weight to advantage - the pirate stilled.

"Hold still, or I'll cut your throat," hissed Beckett, and Norrington looked up to see that the factor was holding the point of Jemmy's knife against Nobby's chin. Norrington smiled, and lifted himself up so that he could pull out Nobby's knife without slicing his own leg open.

There was a sudden commotion at the door, and two marines hurried into the room, bayonets to the ready. They were followed by Mercer, who stopped short when he saw the three men entangled on the floor. Beckett straightened up, loosening his grip on the knife, and the pirate took advantage of the momentary distraction to make his final move. Beckett gave a gasp of surprise and pain, looking down in astonishment at the red stain spreading on his nightshirt.

Norrington cursed and grabbed the pirate's wrist. There was a small knife in the man's hand, suitable for throwing or close work. It had been hidden in a wrist sheath, he realised - a weapon of last resort, that could have been designed expressly for such a situation as this. He wrenched it out of the pirate's hand and threw it towards the fireplace.

The marines stepped in and dragged the pirate to his feet, but not before Norrington had taken the opportunity to lay him out with an elbow to the face that sent him reeling. Mercer produced a pair of handcuffs - goodness only knew where he was hiding them, or why - and they were placed around the pirate's wrists before he was taken away. The other pirate - Jemmy - could not be roused, and was dragged from the room with little care for any bumps or bruises he might accumulate on the way.

Norrington and Mercer helped to get Beckett back into his bed. Beckett was white and shaking, and Norrington feared the worst. "Fetch the doctor," he ordered, and Mercer left the room, shouting for the footman, leaving Beckett and Norrington alone. Norrington immediately grabbed the nearest pillow, removed the pillowcase and rolled it up into a pad, which he then pressed to the wound.

Beckett's hand reached out for him. "I'm dying," he said, sadly.

Norrington couldn't allow himself to agree. "No, you're not," he contradicted, trying to sound confident. "Mercer's gone for the doctor."

Beckett shook his head. "He stabbed me, the mongrel." He tried to sit up, and Norrington hurriedly moved to support him, keeping one hand over the wound.

"He'll be brought to justice, I promise you."

"That won't help me when I'm dead."

"I've seen men survive stab wounds before."

Beckett made no answer, but leaned into Norrington's chest, resting his cheek on the broad shoulder of his former captive. "_Sero te amavi_," he whispered, his tone miserable and forlorn.

"What?" Norrington was confused. "What did you say?"

Beckett sighed. "Never mind, just kiss me."

Norrington hesitated. In the event that Beckett did survive, he didn't want to give the man any more reasons to taunt him, and he didn't think that he could kiss him without revealing his feelings.

"Kiss me," Beckett commanded, his voice a little stronger. "You did before."

Norrington looked at him, blankly. "You remember that?" he asked.

"I have a rather hazy recollection that you kissed me several times during the night. Over there, in the dressing room."

Norrington swallowed. He could have sworn that Beckett would never remember that passionate embrace.

"James," whispered Beckett, "can't you bring yourself to indulge a dying man with his last wish?"

"You're not dying," he repeated, but he turned his head anyway, and pressed his lips gently to Beckett's. It was a chaste kiss, full of tender promise and bittersweet regret. He felt the man in his arms relaxing again, and drew back. Now that the alarums and excursions were over, exhaustion and the lingering effects of laudanum were combining to make Beckett drowsy. He looked young and vulnerable and exhausted, and Norrington was surprised and dismayed by the protective feelings he had towards his erstwhile tormentor. He eased the limp form gently down to the bed and lifted his legs, arranging his limbs in a comfortable position and making sure that the improvised bandage was still over the wound. Then he settled down to wait.

Mercer returned some thirty minutes later with bad news. "The doctor's dead," he announced with grim satisfaction. "Tried to stop the pirates looting his medicines and took a bullet to the throat."

"What about the apothecary?"

Mercer gave him a sardonic look. "If your aim is to kill his lordship, then by all means find the apothecary."

Norrington sighed. Mercer was right: the apothecary was a fool with delusions of genius, who sent more people to their graves than pirates and earthquakes combined. "Then we'll have to treat him ourselves." So saying, he ripped open the front of Beckett's nightshirt, laying bare the man's chest and abdomen, and removing the wadded up linen he'd placed there. The wound was obvious - a nasty gash, about four inches long, extending over the upper abdomen. It gaped a little, but from a first, cursory examination, Norrington thought that it was a shallow wound, and he breathed again. There was hope.

"Fetch hot water, bandages, and a needle and thread," he ordered. "And I'll need a red-hot poker brought up from the kitchens at my command."

"Poker?"

"To cauterise the wound."

"Of course." He turned to go.

"Oh, and Mercer? Some brandy, if you can lay your hands on it."

"For him or for you?"

"For him, principally, but I think we could all use a drop."

Mercer grinned and left to carry out his tasks. He returned several minutes later carrying a bottle of brandy and a bowl of hot water, followed by Susan, who carried cloths, bandages, and her sewing basket. Her face was swollen from crying and Norrington enquired, gently, how she had fared during the attack. He was somewhat relieved to learn that she had not suffered any violation but had been badly scared by the commotion, and by the terror of the other servants, who had all been convinced that they would be murdered - which, thought Norrington, wasn't too far off the mark.

"Is the hot iron coming?"

"Proudfoot will bring it up when you call for it."

"Good."

Norrington took the cloths from Susan and arranged them around Beckett's torso before starting to clean the wound with the warm water. He pulled the edges back and examined it more closely: it was a clean gash, but the angle was awkward, and the wound extended under a flap of skin down into the fat and muscle of the abdomen. He examined the base of the wound closely, but it looked clean and whole. He breathed a sigh of relief. "It does not appear to extend into the abdominal cavity itself," he announced.

Mercer nodded in agreement as he, too, inspected the wound. "His lordship has the luck of the devil."

Norrington grinned. "Let's hope it holds tonight." He looked at the basket of sewing implements with some misgivings.

"Have you stitched a wound before?" asked Mercer.

"No, but I've seen it done. You?"

"I can sew up a man's skin as neat as you can sew a handkerchief."

"Aye, and well you might, but does he live?"

"Often, yes."

Norrington laughed. "Then perhaps it's best if you do the honours. I doubt he'd be pleased to find me experimenting on his body."

Mercer looked surprised and pleased. "I think you undervalue yourself, Mr Norrington. But we'll contrive to set his lordship to rights, don't you worry about that."

"As long as the wound doesn't get infected. I've seen too many men survive the injury only to die of suppuration."

"Then let's have that poker up."

"Very well. Susan, send down for the poker."

She ran off to call down the stairs, and Proudfoot came hurrying up with the poker, its tip still buried in a small brazier of glowing coals.

Mercer looked at the poker, then down at Beckett, still unconscious. "I don't doubt his lordship will wake up as that touches the wound," he murmured.

"I'll ask you to hold his arms as I cauterise the wound - he is likely to take it amiss and try to hit out."

Mercer gave a sardonic grin, but moved to the head of the bed and took a firm grip on Beckett's arms. Beckett awoke at that looked blearily up at them.

"What? What's going on? Let go of me! Why are you holding my wrists?"

"I'm about to cauterise the wound."

"What? No!"

"It has to be done."

"No! Get off me! Let me go!" Beckett struggled violently, and managed to extract one wrist from Mercer's grip.

Norrington saw the wound start to bleed again, and was worried that Beckett would do himself further injury. He signalled to Mercer to release him.

"Listen, Beckett," he said earnestly, setting down the poker and pressing a cloth to the wound, "it's a clean wound now, but it has to be cauterised, otherwise it will get infected."

"I'm not letting you stick a red-hot poker into me."

"Well, do you have any other option?"

"You could leave it alone. It'll heal up."

"It'll get infected, and then you'll start rotting from the inside out. It will be very painful and very smelly."

"I'll risk it."

"I won't let you."

"I've seen those scars. They're horrible."

"Well, there isn't any alternative."

"No?"

"No."

"What about the brandy?" It was Mercer who spoke, and both the men looked at him in astonishment. "We use it to preserve fruit and cleanse water. Why shouldn't it cleanse a wound?"

Norrington considered it. "It might work."

"It would leave a neater scar."

"Are you sure?" asked Beckett.

"Fairly sure."

"Well, then, let's get on with it."

Mercer took hold of Beckett's wrists again while Norrington placed a cloth ready to catch the run-off, then slowly opened the wound and tipped the brandy into it. There was no reaction for a second, then Beckett gasped and started writhing around.

"Arrgh! God damn you!"

Norrington waited until Beckett calmed down a little. "I know it hurts abominably, but I'm only trying to make sure that you live, remarkable as it seems. Now hold still, I'm going to do it again."

This time, Beckett was more prepared for it, and held himself rigid as Norrington poured the spirit into the wound, making sure that it covered all the raw flesh. He was panting and gasping though, and his forehead was covered in sweat.

Norrington replaced the stopper and set the bottle down on the table. He mopped up the excess fluid, tinged pink with blood, and then looked up at Mercer. "All yours, Mr Mercer."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Beckett.

"Mr Mercer is going to stitch the wound. He has done it before and I have not. I presumed that you would prefer an experienced hand to perform the surgery."

"Well, yes, I suppose," grumbled Beckett. He moved to sit up, but was prevented by Norrington's hand on his chest.

"Stay still. You don't want to make things worse."

Mercer threaded the needle from with a fine linen twist that Susan had deemed the strongest, and approached his master with remarkable confidence. "Now then, milord, just a little more unpleasantness and we'll let you rest." He nodded at Norrington to take over his role as immobiliser, and went about his task briskly, and with little regard for Beckett's muttered profanities.

It didn't take long (for which Norrington was thankful - Beckett was a lot stronger than he looked) and then they combined to clean up the last of the blood and apply a thick pad of cotton over the wound. They settled Beckett back down on the bed, and Norrington arranged the sheets around his torso, leaving the bandage free. Susan cleared up the mess their surgical adventures had created and took the bloody cloths away with her.

He persuaded Beckett to take a few more drops of laudanum in some wine, and watched as his lordship fell asleep shortly thereafter. The room was quiet and Norrington suddenly felt himself under observation. He looked up to find Mercer watching him with his usual inscrutable expression.

"He won't be an easy patient, I fear," said Mercer, pouring two small glasses of brandy and handing one to Norrington.

"No he won't, but as long as he lives, I'll be content."

"I've no doubt you will, Mr Norrington."

They drained their glasses, then Mercer opened the curtains and the shutters, letting in both sunshine and fresh air. Norrington realised with some surprise that the sun was already well above the horizon. He had thought the night would never end, but he guessed that it was around eight o'clock in the morning.

"You had better send word to the governor that Lord Beckett is injured," he told Mercer, who nodded agreement.

"I'll go myself. I'll call in at the Fort on the way, and see what news I can gather."

Norrington wanted to accompany him - not least to remonstrate against the incompetence of the sentries - but he was unsure of his position and did not care to presume on his former rank. Instead, he said, "That would be prudent. His lordship is likely to want news as soon as he wakes. I'll stay with him until you get back." He found Mercer to be looking at him intently, and made haste to add, "I can assure you that he'll take no harm from me."

"I have no doubt of that, Mr Norrington," replied Mercer, favouring him with a slight, thin- lipped smile. "I'll make sure that some breakfast is sent up, and a draught for his lordship to drink if he wakes."

"Thank you."

Mercer nodded and left the room.

Norrington pulled up a chair and sat down facing the bed, trying to ignore the ache in his gut and the pain in his knee from the blows he had suffered. His shoulder, too, was starting to throb, and he supposed that he must have wrenched it during that final, desperate struggle with the pirate.

He looked over at Beckett, whose face was drawn and pale. Norrington felt a disconcerting churning in his gut as he contemplated the possibility that his patient might yet die of his wound. The prospect dismayed him. He was no stranger to violence - who could be, when England was so often at war? - but it was rarely that he felt any guilt over the injury or death of any of his men. In this case, however, there was no denying the fact that he was directly responsible, at least in part, for his lordship's ordeal. If he hadn't given him laudanum - if he had been quicker in returning - if he'd been able to hide them better - if he hadn't been distracted by that kiss - if he'd fought more effectively ... if any of those things had been different, well, then Beckett might not have been tortured and stabbed. He felt as though no effort would be too great to ensure the full recovery of his charge, and understood, now, why Beckett had been so anxious when he had fallen ill with fever, and why he had been treated well as he recovered.

His mind kept returning to the horror of the Rosary and the pain that Beckett had borne without a sound. Norrington had not expected such stoicism from a civilian - especially one so vain and affected as Beckett - and it had both surprised and pleased him. He felt a peculiar sort of pride in knowing that his captor and tormentor was a man of courage and fortitude. In some bizarre way, it made the memories of his own sufferings at Beckett's hand easier to bear.

His cogitations were interrupted by Susan, who brought up some breakfast for Norrington and a saline draught for his lordship, but after that they were left undisturbed for the rest of the morning. He tried to sleep, but was hampered by the poor design of the armchair he had chosen, and the lingering pains from his own wounds. He cast a longing glance at Beckett's feather bed, but decided it would be inappropriate to lie there.

Beckett roused at mid-day, groaning a little as he tried to move. In spite of his fatigue, Norrington woke at once - the habit of years allowing him to rouse from a deep sleep to a state of alertness in an instant - and moved to the bedside.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Beckett looked at him with an aggrieved air. "I've been drugged, attacked, tortured and stabbed, then had to suffer through my wound being doused with brandy and stitched. Under the circumstances I think I'm entitled to feel distinctly under the weather."

Norrington grinned. If Beckett was capable of marking a sarcastic rejoinder, he couldn't be too ill, and he had certainly recovered his wits. "As far as I can be a judge of these matters, the wound is not mortal. You should have been bled, but the doctor is dead and Mercer does not recommend the apothecary. Still, you may yet avoid a fever by lying still and allowing the wound to heal."

Beckett pouted. "If I'm going to be confined to bed, you'd better get me a bottle of sack and a pack of cards."

Norrington shook his head. "No excitement, and no wine."

"Oh, pshaw, man, you don't expect me to drink water, do you?"

"No, but there is an excellent saline draught that Mercer has ordered for you. He says that it has pulled him through many a fever." He poured half a glass of it as he spoke, handing it to Beckett, who looked at it suspiciously.

"Does it taste horrid?"

"No more than these things usually do. Better than ship's water after a month, anyway."

Beckett pouted. "Can't I at least have some sherry?"

"No wine, except to carry the laudanum."

Beckett sighed, and took a mouthful of the draught. He pulled a face and handed the glass back to Norrington, who set it down on the tray. Perhaps he could persuade his patient to take a little more later in the morning.

Beckett shifted, uncomfortably. "This hurts, you know."

"I know." Norrington said, sympathetically. "It will heal, though. I'm sure of it."

"It's going to leave a horrible scar."

"No one will see it."

Beckett was silent for a minute, his eyes fixed on the counterpane, then spoke in a very quiet voice. "I'll see it. Anyone I take to my bed will see it, unless I keep my shirt on."

Norrington was about to chide him for the ridiculously petty nature of the comment, but realised in time that to Beckett, it meant a great deal. Apart from the small pock-mark in the middle of his forehead, visible to all, he couldn't remember Beckett having any scars on his body. It was a truly remarkable accomplishment. Norrington himself had numerous scars from a variety of causes - the smallpox, the accidents he'd had as a boy, and wounds he'd suffered as an adult. He'd never thought of himself as handsome in face or form, and had never bothered his head about how his body might look to a lover, so these mementos of his life had never troubled him. Beckett, though, was different - he was exceptionally fair and exceptionally vain, and Norrington could imagine that to him, the thought of a prominent scar, in a place where he would see it every day, and where a lover would undoubtedly encounter it, was very distressing.

Bearing all this in mind, he tried to reassure the man. "Don't worry yourself. Anyone who cares for you will disregard such a small matter, and anyone who considers it a disfiguration is not worthy of your time."

Beckett smiled wanly. "You're probably right." He tried to heave a sigh, but the movement agitated his wound, and he winced. "Damnation take those villains! I'm going to enjoy watching them hang."

"As will we all. And the town will enjoy the holiday - there hasn't been a hanging here for months."

"No, the town has been very quiet and law-abiding since I arrived - with one or two notable exceptions." After smiling at his own wry jest, Beckett became pensive, and picked at a loose thread. "It hurt, you know, that Rosary. I thought I was going to die."

"I thought we both were."

"I remember thinking - as the pain was getting worse - that all I had to do was give them the key and the pain would stop. I nearly gave in."

Norrington was astonished to hear Beckett's words - to him, the man had appeared courage personified. "But you didn't," he said, very reasonably. "You kept silent and betrayed nothing. And you know they would have killed you anyway, whether you gave in or not."

"I was afraid," Beckett admitted, in a whisper.

"Being afraid is not important - everyone is afraid in battle. The importance lies in doing what has to be done in spite of the fear. You did your duty and the pirates were defeated."

Beckett nodded, seemingly reassured, but Norrington kept a close eye on him. Beckett was not a soldier or a seaman, inured to physical dangers and the sight and smell of blood. He had suffered more than just a physical wound, and the consequences would take some time to repair.

~~~~~

Sometime around three in the afternoon, Norrington heard the carriage pull up, but given Beckett's condition he expected Mercer to turn away any visitors. He was surprised, therefore, to see Mercer come in to see if Beckett was willing to receive Governor Swann.

"Of course I'll see him," said Beckett.

"Is that wise?" asked Norrington. "You should be resting."

"Oh, he'll be no trouble. Here, help me up. Mercer, bring some wine."

Mercer bowed and left, while Norrington voiced his astonishment. "You're not getting out of bed?"

"Of course I am. I'm not on my deathbed, you know."

"You will be if that wound opens up."

Beckett grinned. "I'm sure that you and Mercer will do your best to see that doesn't happen. Now, come one, give me a hand."

Reluctantly, Norrington helped him to sit up, at which point he nearly swooned, and realised that his weakened condition indeed made him too giddy to stand. He grudgingly accepted Norrington's suggestion that he remain in bed, after all, supported by pillows.

"I'll go back to my chamber, then," said Norrington, straightening the counterpane over Beckett's thighs.

"Stay here."

"I'm not supposed to be here, remember? If Governor Swann sees me, it'll be all over the town by sunset."

"I think we can trust in his discretion."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," muttered Norrington under his breath. He heard footsteps outside, and moved away to stand by the table.

Governor Swann was shown in. He made an elegant leg and looked up, a momentary hesitation betraying his surprise at meeting two pairs of eyes where he expected one.

"Lord Beckett," he said, with a flourish of his hat, "I hope that you are recovering from this dastardly piratical attack? I was distressed to hear that not only had you been wounded but that the doctor had been murdered by the cowardly knaves."

"I believe I shall recover," said Beckett, somewhat complacently. "It was not a severe wound, after all, and Mr Norrington and Mercer between them did a doctor's duty."

"Is that so?" Swann looked keenly at Norrington. "I did not know that you had returned to Port Royal, Co-, ah, Mr Norrington."

Mr Norrington bowed slightly. "I returned some time ago but have been living in seclusion. My position was ... somewhat anomalous, as I am sure you can understand."

"Of course," murmured the governor, though he sounded more confused than sure.

"Will you take a glass of wine, Governor?" asked Beckett. "My self-appointed physicians won't let me take any myself, but there is no reason for you to go thirsty."

"Thank you, a glass of sherry would be most welcome."

Norrington poured out a glass for the governor, and handed it to him. The governor gave an approving nod as he sipped - it was, after all the finest that the Company could provide. "I must commend your household, Lord Beckett. I understand that it was Mercer who raised the alarm."

"In fact it was Mr Norrington was one of the first to spot the pirates approaching the town," stated Beckett, proudly. "It was he who was instrumental in raising the alarm and ensuring that the marines were alerted."

Norrington demurred. "It was no more than anyone would have done. Mercer was scarcely a minute behind me, anyway, and it was he who roused the fort."

"Don't be too modest, Mr Norrington. Every drama needs a hero, after all."

Norrington muttered a curse under his breath and swore to get even with Beckett later. This was no time to be baiting him!

"Do you have any idea of the identity of these pirates?" asked the governor. "I understand that some of them were captured alive." His voice trailed off slightly at the end, as if he were afraid to go on.

Beckett remained silent, but Norrington took pity on the old man's fears. "Be at ease, governor. Neither your daughter nor Mr Turner was among them. They were all strangers, and appear to have no connection to the _Black Pearl_."

"Oh, thank goodness," he cried, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his brow. "I was so anxious ... pirates, you see ..."

Norrington stepped forward and assisted him to a chair. "When last I saw Elizabeth - Miss Swann, that is - she was alive and well, on an island many miles from here, in the company of Mr Turner and Captain Sparrow. The two of them were most concerned with her continued welfare."

"Oh, good news, indeed!" he cried, sitting down. "Thank you, Mr Norrington, for relieving a father's natural anxiety. I fear that I have not slept well since she left so many weeks ago. My mind had become quite disordered with grief and worry."

"Believe me, sir, I can assure you that she is being looked after with every care and consideration."

"Thank you, thank you," he repeated.

Norrington bowed again and returned to his own chair by the table.

Beckett looked longingly at the sherry, then forced his attention back to his visitor. "How does the town fare? I understand that several people were killed."

"Yes, it is very shocking. The doctor, of course, but also old Mr Sunderland, the chandler, who tried to protect his wares." He shook his head. "It is very strange that they should be after such mundane items as candles and rope."

"Actually, it is not at all uncommon for pirates to take the simple necessities of life as well as any coin or valuables. They will as willingly strip a merchant ship of her provisions as of her treasure."

"Indeed, they ransacked several of the shops on Thames St." He sighed, and hesitated before revealing the next item. "It is most unfortunate that although the pirates abandoned most of their plunder on the wharf when they were thrown back by the marines, some of the townspeople finished what the pirates had started and carried the goods off for their own ends."

"Hah!" Beckett crowed with delight at this further evidence of the townspeople's shortcomings.

"The shopkeepers were most upset," continued Governor Swann, "and some of them berated the marines for not protecting their wares."

"I trust that you set them to rights, governor? They are responsible for the security of their own wares, you know. Now, had the goods been in a company factory, it would have been a different matter - the militia would have kept them safe."

"Well ..." the governor hesitated, "it is hardly surprising that the poor and indigent were not able to put temptation behind then when faced with a positive cornucopia of food and other necessities for the taking. Their lives can be very hard, you know."

"All the more reason to heed the scriptures, then," said Beckett, piously. Norrington coughed a warning - Beckett was going a little too far.

The governor looked somewhat distressed. He tried to change the subject, saying, "I must compliment you on your bravery and skill in throwing off the pirates who attacked you."

"Oh, I did nothing. Norrington raised the alarm and Mercer fetched the marines. It is they who should be thanked."

Norrington, seeing an opportunity to transfer some of the embarrassment to Beckett, hastened to intervene. "Lord Beckett is too modest," he told the governor, in a confiding tone. "One of the pirates applied an instrument of torture to his head and would have put out his eyes, but his lordship bore it with all the dignity and strength that one would expect of an English gentleman."

"Until Mr Norrington seized the sword that was being held at his own throat and came to my rescue."

"At which point," Norrington pointed out, drily, "my life would have come to a swift and sorry end had not the pirate's pistol misfired and Lord Beckett not come to _my_ rescue, suffering a severe wound in the process."

"It was a glancing blow, no more. And then, by good fortune, we were both rescued by Mercer and the marines, who overcame the last, ferocious struggles of the pirate and carried him off to the fort. They are your true heroes, if you will."

"Indeed, once roused, their response was most timely."

"And even after that, Mr Norrington showed true fortitude in playing the doctor's part and dressing the wound."

"In spite of which, his lordship is still troubled with fever, and should be resting."

The governor, who was starting to look confused at the rapid interplay, mopped his brow again, saying "Dreadful, most dreadful."

Beckett looked as though he was starting to tire, and Norrington decided that in the interests of his patient he should bring the interview to a close. "Thank you for calling, Governor," he said, stepping forward. "I imagine that there are many demands on your time today. Lord Beckett is grateful that you were able to spare a few moments to ask after him."

"Yes, indeed," said the governor, sighing heavily as he rose. "So much to do, so much to repair. I do hope that you will make a speedy recovery, Cutler."

"I'm sure I shall, with Mr Norrington and Mercer to look after me. They have already proved themselves quite capable surgeons."

Norrington escorted the governor from the room, and reassured him once more of his daughter's well-being. He made no mention, however, of the parlous state of affairs that he had left behind. He had every confidence that the misbegotten trio would have extracted themselves from the jaws of death, as usual, and would have made their way back to the _Black Pearl_. It was only a matter of time before they all turned up in the harbour.

~~~~~

As expected, Beckett became feverish that night. Mercer and Norrington were in agreement that he should be bled, but neither of them had any desire to turn phlebotomist, and with the doctor dead and the apothecary more likely to kill than to cure, there was no one available. Instead, Norrington ordered Susan to bring up a bowl of water and some cloths, and he gently sponged Beckett's face and torso, letting the evening breeze cool his patient.

Beckett slept only fitfully, waking frequently and taking sips of Mercer's saline draught. It was a little after midnight that he roused himself sufficiently to notice that Norrington was still sitting in the chair where he'd been all day.

"Are you still here?" he asked.

"Still here," replied Norrington, laconically, his eyes half-closed, feet up on the edge of the bed, hands linked over his waist. He had barely moved in the last twelve hours.

"You surprise me. A sensible man would have run while the town was in chaos."

"I know. But, as you pointed out to me, I lost my senses some time ago."

"This isn't going to change anything, you know. I still own you."

Norrington shrugged. He didn't really care at the moment, as long as Beckett didn't die as a result of the wound, for which he still felt responsible. He had promised himself that he would stay until Beckett recovered. After that, well, then they'd see.

There was a long pause, then Beckett murmured, "I bet you made a terrible pirate."

Norrington opened one eye and looked quizzically at the man in the bed. "And why should you think that?"

"Duty."

"Duty?"

"Yes. The curse of those who hold office."

There was another long pause, and Norrington thought Beckett had fallen asleep again, but eventually he said, "A pirate thinks only of himself and the treasure he's about to loot. Perhaps he might spare a thought for a shipmate, but he puts himself first and foremost. You didn't. You should have run, you should have escaped while you had the chance, but you didn't."

"I couldn't let the town be overrun. There was nothing personal in it at all."

"So why did you come back here first and tell Mercer to raise the marines? Why not go directly to the fort, or to Governor Swann?"

Norrington shifted uncomfortably. He really didn't want to answer that line of questioning.

Beckett continued. "You risked your life to save me. That's not the action of a pirate."

Norrington felt a sudden flash of anger. "How can you be so sure? Have you ever served as a pirate? How many pirates do you know?"

Beckett smiled. "I've never been a pirate, no. But I have met several, in the course of my work for the Company. Dreadful rogues, all of them: not a single one would hesitate to betray his shipmates for the chance of a pardon or some gold. There's no honour among thieves, you know. None at all."

Norrington nodded, slowly. He'd seen that with his own eyes: even Sparrow had tricked Will Turner, a man who had saved his life, into serving with Davy Jones. He smiled to himself, remembering the scene on the beach at Isla Cruces - Elizabeth had been furious when she realised Sparrow's treachery, but at least she had seen the man's true colours at last. _And if Turner succumbs to the fate that is undoubtedly in store for him, I'll have a chance to regain her affections_. But would she accept a disgraced ex-naval officer? And, if he were to be truthful, did he really want her back?

"I could never value money above honour," he stated firmly, putting other thoughts aside, "no matter how desperate my circumstances."

Beckett waved a hand in languid agreement. "My point exactly. One can take it too far, though. Honour without money is just a disease."

Norrington could not agree. "Money without honour is a crime."

"Do you see me as a criminal?"

"Do you see me as a leper?"

"Hmm. Perhaps we must agree to disagree, then."

"Indeed we must."

Beckett fell silent, though he remained restless until persuaded by Norrington to take a little of the laudanum, after which he fell asleep. Norrington lay awake for some time after that, but was sent off to his own bed at dawn by Susan, who promised to wake him should his lordship need assistance.

  
**Chapter 5**

That afternoon a refreshed Norrington was drinking coffee with Beckett when Mercer entered to tell them that a deputation of several merchants and plantation owners had called to pay their respects. Beckett immediately put down his cup and demanded that Proudfoot be sent to help him dress.

"You can't," said Norrington, as soon as the door had closed again. "You're not well enough."

"I'm not receiving Pratchett and his like in my nightshirt!"

"You don't have to receive them at all. Get Mercer to say you're still too unwell for visitors. You were exhausted after the Governor's call yesterday."

"James, what have I been telling you about appearances? It doesn't matter if I'm at death's door, I have to see them and convince them I'm well, or they'll all try to renegotiate their contracts. This is _not _the same as the governor's visit, believe me."

_Trust Beckett to think of commerce first_. Norrington could see the point, but he was still concerned. The wound was only a day and a half old, after all, and Beckett would be feverish for some time to come. "You can't get dressed. The wound will open up."

"I'm getting dressed and I'm going downstairs. Ah, Proudfoot - I need the blue coat, the cream waistcoat and my day wig set out."

"Very good, milord."

"No, it's not good," interrupted Norrington. "He can't get his arms into that coat without opening up his wound."

Proudfoot appeared to be struck by the truth of that statement and hovered, rather uncertainly, in the middle of the room. Norrington pressed home his advantage. "If it's good enough for the king to receive visitors in his bedchamber, I don't see why it's not good enough for an Agent of the East India Trading Company."

Beckett snorted. "The king may well appear to advantage in his nightgown - heaven knows he doesn't in his court dress - but I do not."

Proudfoot coughed discreetly. "If I may venture a suggestion, milord?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"Perhaps a compromise may be possible? Your Lordship can easily be dressed in breeches and stockings with no risk to your wounds. Would you agree, Mr Norrington?"

"Yes," said Norrington, slowly, wondering what was coming next.

"Over that, you could wear a dressing-gown - the green silk one, perhaps - which, being more loosely-constructed, will not exert any pressure or tension on the wound."

Norrington nodded. "Yes, that will be an admirable solution."

Beckett looked from one to the other, then capitulated. "Oh, very well. But it will be the crimson one with the gold embroidery. The green makes me look sickly."

"Very well, milord."

"And ring for Susan. I want all this cleared away, and tea brought up."

"I'll do that," said Norrington, rising and going over to the bell-pull. Proudfoot bowed and hurried off into the dressing room.

The next few minutes were witness to a fury of activity as Susan cleared away the dirty china and tidied up, while between them, Norrington and Proudfoot managed to get Lord Beckett dressed in an astonishingly short space of time. The dressing gown - lavishly embroidered with a design incorporating fantastical birds and animals nestled among the leaves of an immense tree - made Beckett look like some oriental potentate, and Proudfoot spent some time arranging the folds of cloth around Beckett's knees until he was satisfied, then scurried out with the dirty linen.

Norrington turned to follow him.

"Where do you think you're going?" came from behind him.

"I thought ... in the circumstances ... I mean ... Governor Swann was one thing, but I can hardly sit here with you in front of a deputation of planters. You know how Pratchett is - he won't rest until he has the whole story."

"So damn his impertinence and say nothing."

"It's not that easy."

Beckett snorted. "If I have to put up with them, you can. And I refuse to see them alone." He attempted a pathetic look. "I'm a wounded man, James. Would you abandon me to the wolves?"

Norrington laughed, in spite of his irritation. "You'd make mincemeat of them, and you know it."

"I might hurt myself."

"Not if you stay still."

There was the sound of people in the corridor, and Beckett grinned. "Too late, you have to stay now."

Norrington moved past, with the intention of taking refuge in the dressing room, but Beckett put out an arm to stop him, gasping in pain as he did so. Norrington whirled around, horrified at the thought that his own actions had caused the very harm he had hoped to avert. "Are you all right?" he asked, placing an arm on Beckett's shoulder and attempting to lift the dressing gown to see if the wound had started bleeding.

"I'm fine. Don't fuss," scolded Beckett, and pulled the dressing gown closed again.

The door opened, and Norrington could do nothing else but straighten up and move behind Beckett's chair - _like any retainer_, he thought, disgustedly - as Mercer showed the visitors into the room. He looked down at his coat. All his clothing had been washed and mended by Susan while he was bedridden, but they had seen some hard wear, and were looking rather shabby. Since rising from his sickbed he'd been wearing a coat of plain brown serge, which he suspected had belonged to Mercer at some stage. He cast an envious glance at the fine linen and silk of Beckett's attire, casual though it might be, and told himself that clothes might make the man, but not the officer.

"Sir George Standfast, Mr Pratchett, Mr Melsom and Mr Whitney, milord."

Beckett was suddenly all smiles and affability. "Ah, gentlemen, please come in. Mercer - some tea for our guests."

Mercer bowed and left, pulling the door to.

"Gentlemen, I believe that you have all met Mr Norrington." He gave them no explanation for the former commodore's presence in Port Royal, and Norrington hid a sardonic smile as he exchanged bows with them. He knew that they would miss no detail of his dress or bearing, and he was compelled, therefore, to ignore the discomfort he felt in his present habiliments and present an air of languid indifference.

Pratchett, whose eyes had nearly started out of his head at the sight of the former officer, visibly composed himself and made an elegant leg to his lordship. "Milord," he began, "I trust that you will accept our humble commiserations on your recent injury. The tales of your bravery under hideous duress are the talk of the town."

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "Are they, indeed?" he drawled. "Please ignore anything you may have heard. I do so hate being the object of common gossip."

Pratchett was taken aback and immediately attempted to provide reassurance. "Oh no, milord, not _common_ gossip at all - merely the natural admiration that any gentleman must feel on learning of such stoicism and courage."

"Of course, I quite understand. Still, I hope that I may count on you all to discourage such idle speculation. These exaggerated tales are of no value whatsoever. Why, I am sure that each and every one of you would have displayed exactly the same sterling English character had you been in the same situation."

Norrington kept his eyes firmly fixed on the carpet. It really was too bad of Beckett to be teasing them in this way, when he knew full well that most of them had been cowering in their beds when they heard the alarms, and that Melsom (according to Mercer) had shown no hesitation in offering the pirates all his worldly goods and his daughters besides if they would only spare him his life.

There was a general coughing and mumbling and shifting of feet, until Mr Whitney plucked up the courage to speak. "Has your lordship been informed of the death of Mr Sunderland, the chandler?"

"Yes, Governor Swann was kind enough to call on me yesterday afternoon, and told me of that sad event. I do hope that the city will do something to aid his widow and children."

"Indeed, we thought of taking up a collection, for his family and the others affected by the monstrous attack. We hoped that perhaps you - or, rather, the East India Trading Company - would lead the way by making a donation to the worthy cause."

"Of course. I am happy to match whatever sums you have given." He paused. "What amount should I draw?"

There was another pause as the merchants exchanged looks amongst themselves, and Norrington was once more hard-pressed to keep a straight face. If only they could see how transparent they were, how Beckett played them all like a very Walton!

"Well, as to that, we had not yet decided on an exact sum. All our circumstances are very different, you understand."

"I understand completely, gentlemen. After all, a sum that would be trivial to the East India Trading Company might be more than any of you could easily contribute, and the element of competition in such a matter would be venial. Please, take your time, and let me know tomorrow or the next day. I am sure that Mercer will have the sum to hand."

Mercer and a footman brought in the tea, and the conversation continued for some minutes, but all the important matters had been said: Beckett (and hence the East India Trading Company) was alive and well and not inclined to let the planters take any advantage of his current weakness. Anything else was simply makeweight.

They didn't stay long, rising promptly when Beckett offered them another cup of tea, and left with promises of renewed contracts for their goods and relief for the newly-widowed.

Beckett slumped in his chair as soon as they had left the room. He was pale and exhausted, and made no demur when Norrington rang for Proudfoot. Between the two of them, they managed to get his lordship undressed and back into bed, where he lay back against the pillows, his skin ashen. Proudfoot delved into the medicine chest to retrieve a revivifying cordial, and Norrington was surprisingly relieved to see it bring a hint of colour back into his patient's cheeks.

Beckett swore softly as he moved, trying to get comfortable.

"Keep still," chided Norrington in a soft voice. "You'll only make things worse if you keep wriggling about."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one with a six-inch knife wound in your side."

"No, but I am speaking from experience."

"I suppose you've had dozens of wounds."

"Not that many."

"But you've been wounded in battle."

"Yes." He didn't feel the need to elaborate, and was relieved when Beckett didn't enquire further.

His patient fidgeted some more, then settled down. "I don't think I'll see any more visitors today."

"I'll tell Mercer you are not at home."

Beckett nodded and shut his eyes. He really did look exhausted, and Norrington left him to sleep.

~~~~~

Although Beckett demonstrated admirable composure in coping with the pain and discomfort of his wound, he still required laudanum in order to sleep through the night. Unfortunately, as Norrington had already discovered to his cost, under the influence of laudanum his lordship was decidedly more amorous and affectionate than would be considered seemly in a man of substance. Luckily for his reputation, his affections seemed to be focussed on Norrington, and since Norrington and Susan bore the brunt of the nursing, there was little that anyone else saw. Norrington became used to having his bottom fondled whenever it was within an arm's reach of the bed, and he tried, more or less unsuccessfully, to evade Beckett's clumsy attempts at kisses. He was tempted to leave off the laudanum entirely in order to restore his patient to his senses, but capitulated each night when he saw Beckett become feverish and restless.

He managed, after the first night, to devise a compromise of sorts: if Beckett behaved himself while Norrington was dressing his wound or helping Susan to wash him, he would get a kiss at the end of it; if not then he would be left on his own to sulk. Beckett's objections were countered by Norrington pointing out (quite reasonably, he thought) that Beckett was incapable of anything more energetic at present. Beckett, though objecting in the strongest possible terms to what he perceived as an insult to his strength, was forced to accept that he couldn't sit himself up yet, and so was not fit for more active pursuits. He capitulated, for the moment, but promised to re-open negotiations once he was able to leave his bed. Norrington was happy with that outcome, for the moment.

It didn't take long for Beckett to respond to Norrington's training, and so it was that his exemplary conduct during the last dressing of the third day was followed by a kiss that lasted some minutes and left Norrington with an erection that he had to will into submission.

He looked down at Beckett's sleeping form, a small and vulnerable craft adrift in a vast sea of linen, and couldn't help but bring his hand to cup the man's cheek. Beckett nuzzled into the touch and Norrington smiled. If only life could be restricted to touch and response, he thought, how simple everything would be. Instead, every action, every thought, had to be considered and evaluated if it weren't to reveal too much of how he felt.

The irony was that he didn't know what he felt - or, rather, that what he felt was not the same from one moment to the next. At times like this, when Beckett was asleep and helpless, he felt protective and tender. At other times he remembered Beckett's treatment of him in the attic, and his guts filled with a burning resentment. He couldn't forget - he mustn't forget - but that had to be balanced against all the other things, such as Beckett's care of him while he had been prostrate with fever.

His thoughts wandered, as they often did, towards his own situation, and what the future might hold for him. He wondered how much longer he would be Beckett's captive, and what the Admiralty might decide should be his punishment - assuming, that is, that they didn't confirm the sentence of death that had been passed down in his absence. If he were to gain his freedom, what would he do? What _could_ he do? He had no skills beyond those of a seaman, and no qualifications but those the Navy had granted him. He was bred for the sea and it had been his whole life since the age of fourteen. He had never given the slightest consideration to what might be outside the bounds of sea and port - no wonder he had fallen into a life of misery following his flight from Port Royal.

He grimaced as he recalled those months in Tortuga, when he had done his best to drink himself to death. He would not return to that living hell, no matter how desperate his circumstances. Perhaps he'd change his name and work his passage to Virginia and thence back to England, or Beckett might allow him passage on an East Indiaman. Perhaps he might be able to take up the letters of marque he'd taken from Sparrow and make his way as a privateer - a far cry from the Royal Navy, to be sure, but better than life in chains, or before the mast.

Well, there was no sense in planning too far ahead. He looked down, once more, at the sleeping man before him, and hoped that the Lords of the Admiralty would take their time in making their decision. Life here - at least since his recovery from fever - was far from unpleasant, even with Beckett at his most demanding. It was almost cosily domestic, in fact, and Norrington found himself suddenly longing for the comfort of a settled home and family. Absurd, indeed, but there it was. He wondered if it was just a passing phase - a reaction to the unsettled life he'd led for the past few months - or if he was growing old. Or maybe he was just growing too fond of Beckett. He smiled to himself, and gently stroked Beckett's cheek once more before stealing quietly from the room.

~~~~~

Over the next few days Beckett's condition improved. The wound did not, so far, look to be infected, and his appetite was returning. The cook excelled himself in providing light fare suitable for invalids, and Mercer found a few bottles of a claret that, after some deliberation with Norrington, was deemed suitable for a convalescent. Beckett was thence pleasantly employed in regaining his strength and conducting as much of his business as he could manage from his bed-chamber.

Norrington spent much of the day with him, chatting or reading to him, or writing letters at his dictation. It freed Mercer to carry out much of the Company's business in the factory and along the wharves, and allowed Beckett to take advantage of their privacy by demanding services of a very different nature as soon as he was capable.

One afternoon, a week after the attack, Beckett was sitting in an easy chair by the window, looking out at the harbour. It was a busy day, and there were hundreds of people bustling around, in all walks of life. In contrast, the far shore of the harbour appeared quiet and serene.

"One of these days, I'm going to take you outside and fuck you on the beach," said Beckett, inconsequentially.

"It's over-rated," replied Norrington, looking up from the letter he was copying. "Sand everywhere - very uncomfortable." He grinned at Beckett's astonished look. "I do speak from experience, I assure you."

"I imagine you do." Beckett looked at him speculatively. "And what other pearls of wisdom might I glean from your vast experience? Do tell me."

"Hmm..." Norrington thought about that for a moment, then grinned. "I'd rather show you."

Beckett's eyes gleamed. "That could be interesting."

"It could indeed."

"Perhaps you might show me something right now."

"I could, but Mercer's sensibilities might be offended."

Beckett raised an eyebrow. Norrington gestured to the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, which indicated a little before four o'clock. "He said he expected to return by four."

"So he did." He glanced out of the window and sighed. "And here he comes now, efficient as always."

"You sound almost disappointed. Do you not value punctuality in a servant?"

"Not when it interferes with my plans for debauchery."

"Ah well, you're hardly recovered enough for that, so perhaps it's for the best."

"Not even a little bit?"

Norrington smiled. "How does one define a _little bit_ of debauchery?"

"Well, you could come over here and kiss me, to start with, and then maybe you could put your hand down my breeches."

"And what would I find in your breeches?"

"A veritable cannon, Mr Norrington, primed and ready to fire at your touch."

Norrington couldn't suppress a shiver of delighted anticipation. After more than a week of enforced abstinence, he felt primed and ready himself. He was about to get up and put Beckett's statement to the test, but at that moment he heard Mercer at the door, and dropped back into his seat. The amused glances the two men exchanged, however, promised that the subject would be revisited later.

~~~~~

That evening, Beckett sat up to a quiet dinner laid out on the table in his chamber. While the servants remained, they continued their earlier discussion on a new book that they had been reading together - "Gulliver's Travels" by the Reverend Swift. Norrington disliked it, having taken exception to some of the descriptions of ships and sailing, while Beckett acclaimed it as a witty allegory, and was eager to point out the allusions to English society that were described in the foibles of those peoples encountered by Mr Gulliver. They both agreed, however, that the book was very different from the "Four Years Voyages of Captain George Roberts" that had appeared earlier in the year.

Once the covers had been removed and the room was quiet, conversation gradually petered out, and they were left with a silence that grew rather more awkward as it lengthened, until Beckett grinned at Norrington and said, "Come here. I think it's time you explored my breeches."

Norrington smiled and rose from his seat. "Is that cannon still primed?"

"More than ever. The slightest touch could set it off."

"That could be dangerous. It would be prudent to render it safe before retiring, or it might go off in the night." So saying, he leaned over Beckett's chair and slid his hand down over the bulge that was clearly visible under the cloth.

"Oh, that's good," muttered Beckett, straightening himself out a little to provide Norrington with better access. He fumbled at the buttons of his breeches. "I can't wait until I'm fit enough to fuck you again."

"Maybe I'll fuck you, instead," Norrington said, teasingly, as his hand rubbed over firm flesh.

The change in Beckett's expression was immediate. His faced closed up completely and his voice became flat and neutral. "I doubt it."

Norrington smiled - a predatory, powerful smile that he rarely used, but always to effect. "Do you? I don't. One of these days I'm going to fuck you, anywhere you please, and you're going to want it."

"Do you really think so?" Beckett drawled. "I can't imagine why."

Norrington pressed his advantage. "Curiosity. You won't be able to help yourself - you'll want to know what it feels like."

"You forget - I already know that."

Norrington shook his head. "No you don't. I buggered you for sport when I met you in India, and it was very pleasant - and don't deny it, I remember exactly what you said to me when you came - but I didn't take the time to do it properly, to touch every inch of your skin, learn you, to feel you, to bring you to the edge of madness, to drive out every other thought in your head." He leaned forward, watching as Beckett swallowed and adjusted his stance, and allowed himself a small, very private smile. "I could do that," he went on, his voice low and husky. "I could do that to you - _for_ you - and this time there would be no one to see us, no one to interrupt, no one to laugh. Just you and me, and a little sweet oil to ease the way."

Beckett swallowed and attempted to regain his composure. "You make a very persuasive argument, Mr Norrington. I shall give the matter my due consideration. For the moment, however, I desire you to kneel before me and apply your persuasive arguments to my cock." So saying, he leaned back in his chair, unbuttoned the flap of his breeches and let his cock spring free of the confining cloth.

Norrington considered refusing, but he knew it would do no good - Beckett still had the power of life and death over him, after all, and he would do well not to forget that. He knelt before Beckett, took the firm cock in his hand and gave it a few strokes to bring it to full hardness, before bending his head and taking it into his mouth. It was certainly eager, twitching and jerking in his mouth as Beckett squirmed in his seat. He used his hand to augment his ministrations, and was rewarded by the rapid increase in Beckett's breathing. In just a few seconds more his mouth was flooded, and he was swallowing and pulling back to avoid choking.

Beckett sat with his head tilted right back, looking at the ceiling and panting. It was a few seconds before he had recovered enough to sit upright again, and then he looked at Norrington. "That was good. Fast, but good."

"I aim to please."

"Stand up and I'll aim to please you."

Norrington rose, wondering what he meant. Apart from the one time in the attic cell, Beckett had never brought him off except by fucking him, and he certainly wasn't up for that now - he didn't even think that he could suck him off without disturbing his wound. Still, at a nod from Beckett he undid his own breeches and pulled out his prick, which was only just starting to harden. Beckett reached for it, spreading his own legs and drawing him in closer.

The elegant fingers closed around him, and he sighed, pushing his hips forward a little. It was good to feel someone else's hands around his prick, especially someone who knew how to use them to maximum advantage. He could feel Beckett's thumb hooking over the head, smearing the fluid that was already there, using it to increase the smoothness of his stroke. The scent of musk was getting stronger, and he looked down, gasping, as the strokes grew faster and tighter, until he jerked forward, grabbing onto Beckett's shoulders so as not to fall over. His semen spurted forward onto Beckett's chest, covering the linen shirt with a milky dribble.

He stood there for a few seconds, catching his breath, before pulling out of Beckett's grip and staggering back into his own chair. He did up his breeches and drew his chair back to the table. He realised that he was avoiding Beckett's gaze, and looked up, not wanting to appear bashful. Beckett looked down at his ruined shirt, then directly at him, his face impish and conspiratorial. His mouth twitch into a smile, and before he knew it they were giggling like schoolboys, both of them, and all awkwardness had disappeared like dew in the sun.

Beckett recovered first and got up. "Come on, then. Ring for Susan and let's get this dressing done so I can go to sleep. It's a big day, tomorrow, after all."

~~~~~

The next day, the eighth after the attack, dawned bright and clear, as usual, and Norrington regarded the blue sky morosely. He was not at all looking forward to the service of thanksgiving \- not least because it would mark his first public appearance since leaving the island so many months ago. At least he would be wearing a new coat, Lord Beckett having commissioned the local tailor to do his best in the time available. It wouldn't be the same as his beloved blue dress uniform, but it would be infinitely better than the ragged old coat he'd arrived in, or the plain brown serge he'd been wearing since he rose from his sickbed.

Beckett was his main concern - he was still throwing a mild fever in the evenings, and Norrington was of the opinion that a church service followed by a long and pompous ceremony was not conducive to rapid convalescence. Beckett, of course, flatly refused to remain at home, saying that it was important that the East India Trading Company be properly represented. He did, however, consent to be carried from church to fort in the carriage, which appeased both Mercer and Norrington to some extent.

Norrington washed and dressed himself quickly, paying little heed to his new clothing beyond ensuring his cravat was neat and his stockings unwrinkled. He would only be in the background, after all, one of the Company entourage. All eyes would be on Beckett and the Governor, who would undoubtedly outshine all the others.

He wandered into Beckett's chamber and saw his lordship resplendent in a kingfisher-blue coat with gold accents, a silver and gold waistcoat, and breeches that matched his coat. He was just putting the finishing touches to his ensemble, looking severely at his hands.

"Ah, there you are. Should I wear the emerald or the sapphire with this? It's such an odd colour, this coat, doesn't seem to go with anything."

"Perhaps you have an aquamarine?"

"Alas, no, though you're right, it would be the ideal accompaniment. It is an omission that I shall have to rectify. Hmm ... although it might be easier just to have another coat made up." He spoke quite seriously, but it still brought a smile to Norrington's face to hear him talk so lightly of such a great expense.

"Perhaps just the signet ring then."

"But I have to have something for each hand!"

Norrington sighed and walked over to peer into Beckett's jewellery box. It was full of rings and chains and pins, in every style and every colour imaginable. "Heavens! Where did you get all these?"

"India, of course. Well, I bought them there, at any rate. Some of the stones come from further afield."

"Well," said Norrington, rummaging around with a finger, "perhaps this one might do." He held up a ring set with a dark blue stone - so dark it was almost black, with an odd streakiness to it. "I'm not sure if it's a sapphire or not, but it'd dark enough that it won't clash with the coat."

Beckett took it from him and tried it on. "Hmm, yes, well it will have to do. It's a star sapphire, from Bengcoke. Very rare, so I'm told." He admired his hand for a few seconds, then returned to the spot in front of the mirror. "Very well, Proudfoot, the sword belt, if you please."

Proudfoot buckled the sword-belt around shoulder and waist, and then helped his lordship into the coat. Finally the sword was attached to the belt, his lordship's hat was picked up and everything was ready.

Norrington looked enviously at Beckett's sword. He'd lost his service sword somewhere along the way at Isla Cruces, and had not yet had the chance to replace it. As to the sword that Will Turner had given him - well, he'd never had the heart to wear it anyway. He wondered where it might be now - he'd left it behind when he'd stolen away in disgrace, and hadn't bothered to make any enquiries about it. Stupid of him, really - he could have got a good price for it in Tortuga.

He looked up from his musings to find Proudfoot standing in front of him, holding out another sword belt. "I don't have a sword," he said, shortly, turning away.

"Oh, but I think you do," came Beckett's soft voice and he turned back around to see Beckett holding a long, thin box in his hands. Could it possibly be ...? He took a couple of steps towards it, and Beckett lifted the lid. There, nestled in the satin lining, was the sword he hadn't seen for over a year. It was shining and beautiful, and when he unsheathed it, it was still perfectly balanced.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, his eyes still fixed on the metal.

"You'd be surprised what I can find when I have a mind to it."

Norrington allowed Proudfoot to assist him into the sword belt, then into his coat, but he attached the sword himself. He stood up and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was older, certainly, but with his new clothes and his hair drawn back and powdered he looked much as he had two years ago, before any of the nightmare had begun. He looked like a gentleman, anyway, even if he was no longer an officer.

"Thank you," he managed to say.

Beckett smiled. "I thought it was yours from the initials."

"It is. I thought it was lost."

"It may have been, but it is now restored. Do try to look after it this time." With that he led the way out into the corridor and down the stairs to the carriage that was to take them to the church.

Norrington followed behind, his eyes, still straying to the sword every few seconds. There was something peculiarly poignant, he thought, in finding that which one had thought lost forever.

~~~~~

The service was a trial of endurance for all of them. The Revd Thompson preached about duty and doing what was right rather than what was convenient, only of course he took two hours to say it, and most of the congregation were snoring, either openly or discreetly, by the time he came to his conclusion. Beckett was struggling with the effort of sitting up straight for so long, and had tipped his head back against the pew. Norrington felt an absurd desire to hold him, to make him more comfortable - or at least to tell the blasted parson to hurry up. They still had several hours of speeches to go and it wouldn't do for Beckett to keel over in the middle of it all.

As they started to moved from the church to their carriage, which was to carry them up to the fort where the ceremony was to be held, Norrington had a discreet word with Mercer, who nodded and edged his way through the crowd. When the carriage (which had inched its way slowly through the crowded streets) finally arrived at the entrance to the fort, Mercer was there to meet them.

Beckett looked at the small flask that Mercer held out to him. "What's this?" he hissed.

"Laudanum in wine, milord. At Mr Norrington's direction."

Beckett was suddenly furious. "I don't need this!"

Norrington was unperturbed. "You will," he said, "and it's better to take a small dose now and survive the rest of the day than to fall over in a dead faint in front of the entire population of Port Royal."

"I never faint."

"You will if you keep this up," Norrington parried. "But don't worry, I'm sure that everyone will forget about it ... in ten years or so."

"I don't want to fall over in an opium haze, either."

"It's only a small dose - I asked Mercer to make it up to half strength. Just enough to take the edge off, not enough to make you drunk."

Beckett stuck out his bottom lip. "I hate this stuff."

"Think of it as another unpleasant task that has to be done to maintain the reputation of the East India Trading Company. You can impress the planters with your fortitude, even while wounded."

Beckett gave him a jaundiced look. "Were you a nursemaid in a former life?"

"I don't subscribe to heathen beliefs."

"It was a rhetorical question."

"This one isn't: are you going to take the laudanum now or are Mercer and I going to have to carry you out of the fort later this afternoon?"

Beckett swore and unstoppered the flask. He took a swig, grimaced, and replaced the stopper with a forceful motion. He dropped the flask into the pocket of his coat and glared up at Norrington. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic. Now get a move on, we're here."

The secular part of the thanksgiving ceremony was even more painful than the service, since they were now all standing and the day was further advanced. They stood in silent endurance, listening to speech after speech, until finally it was Lord Beckett's turn. He leaned over the temporary lectern that had been erected, and if anyone suspected that he used it as much to support himself as his papers, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

"Governor Swann, Sir George, Reverend Thompson, ladies and gentlemen of Port Royal. I am delighted to stand here today to add my small thanks to those who saved Port Royal from a most vicious and dastardly attack by pirates. We have heard many speeches, most of them of an eloquence and erudition far surpassing my own, and there remains little that I can add to the facts that we already know. Suffice it to say that the militia of the honourable East India Trading Company and the gallant marines of Port Royal showed their courage and commitment in raising the alarm and defending property and people from the vile pirates. They were not the only ones who showed true courage, however. Many of the townspeople were equally staunch in their efforts, and it is to their credit, as well as to the garrison, that the pirates were eventually forced to concede and to surrender. You may be assured that all of them will be brought to trial and will feel the full weight of the king's justice upon them."

He paused to allow for the cheering that erupted (a less enthusiastic cheering than had greeted the earlier speeches, but then it was after midday and the sun was becoming fierce), and continued in a slightly less heroic vein. "I realise that many people of the town paid a high price for their efforts, either in material loss or in injuries to their person. Some few paid with their lives - but not their honour."

Norrington stifled a smirk - that was an indirect reference to Melsom, and many of the audience would pick it up - and concentrated on smoothing his features into a look of bland concentration.

"The East India Trading Company has already made a donation to the funds set up for the widows and families of those who lost their lives in the attack. Many of the town's most prominent people have done likewise. I hope that those of you who can spare a little will make a contribution to help those who are left indigent and needy."

There was a murmuring of agreement and rustling from the crowd as people checked their purses. Norrington wondered, cynically, how many of them would give to the cause - and how long it would take the recipients to drink their way through any money that was given to them.

"There remains only one task for me this afternoon, and that is to mention the efforts of Mr James Norrington, whom many of you will know from his time here with the Naval squadron. Since his departure from Port Royal he has been engaged on many activities, to the benefit of the East India Trading Company and hence to Port Royal. It was he who first spotted the pirate ship approaching, and he who raised the alarm. He also played a large part in overcoming the pirates who invaded my house, saving my life and that of many of the inhabitants. To him we are all indebted."

He paused for breath while the crowd responded politely with another smattering of applause, and Norrington could see, out of the corner of his eye, that Beckett's knuckles were white where he was clinging on to the podium for support. He was wondering how soon he could effect his lordship's removal from the dais when he was distracted by a sudden movement to his side.

Governor Swann stepped forward, holding a large scroll. "I believe at this point that it behooves me to call Mr Norrington forward. The mayor, the aldermen and I have agreed unanimously that such valour deserves to be recognised with one of the highest honours that it is in our power to bestow." He paused, and smiled as Norrington stepped up to meet him. "I am delighted to present you with the Freedom of the City of Port Royal."

Norrington was dumbfounded. He'd had no notion at all that this was planned, and wondered how and when Beckett had managed to arrange it. Then he looked at Beckett's face, and realised that it was just as much a surprise to his lordship as it was to himself. He accepted the scroll that the governor handed to him, and the handshakes from both the governor and the mayor, followed by one from Lord Beckett.

He stepped back, in a daze. Freedom of the city! It was a rare honour, he knew, and one that meant a great deal to him. What's more, it gave him certain specific privileges that even Beckett would be hard pressed to overturn. It was a masterstroke, in effect: a stratagem worthy of Beckett's beloved Machiavelli. Beckett had been outgunned and outmanoeuvred, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He turned the scroll over in his hands. The citation made it sound as if he had been employed by the East India Trading Company all along, engaged in some cloak-and-dagger role against England's enemies, and that his presence on the wharves that night had been design, not chance. It was a good alibi for his months-long absence, and he found himself caught in reluctant admiration of the Governor's powers of invention and persuasion.

That was the last speech; the crowd dispersed soon after that, to buy food and drink from the stalls and watch the entertainers who had amassed in the streets. Beckett and Norrington had been invited to dine at the governor's residence, but Norrington had put his foot down, insisting that Beckett would need to return to the house to rest. Beckett had agreed reluctantly, but Norrington had expected a further attempt to change his mind once they were in the town. He was wrong though - the afternoon's service and speeches had drained Beckett's strength so much that he was white with exhaustion, and he made no resistance as Norrington and Mercer cleared a way for him back to the carriage. Once hidden from the crowd's view, he accepted another dose of laudanum without complaint, and leaned back against Norrington's chest.

"Freedom of the city," he murmured, taking the scroll from Norrington's hand and looking at it carefully. "I didn't think the Governor had so much guile in him. I almost begin to like him."

Norrington smiled. "He's a good man."

"He trusts too much."

"As I said, he's a good man."

Beckett gave a small snort of compounded amusement and exasperation as he rolled up the scroll and re-tied the ribbon. He leaned back and shifted a little, trying to get more comfortable.

The carriage started to move with a jolt, and Norrington's arms caught Beckett before he fell off the seat. He settled Beckett back against his chest and linked his hands in front to secure him as the carriage moved slowly and ponderously back through the town.

"I'm exhausted," muttered Beckett, wanly.

"I'm not surprised. Four hours we were out there."

"I think I might take a rest when we get back."

"Good idea. I'll have a tray brought to your room."

Beckett nodded wearily, his eyes already drifting shut. Norrington held him close during the journey back to the house, and if his lips strayed perilously close to the tender patch of skin beneath his charge's ear from time to time, well, that was solely due to the motion of the carriage.

~~~~~

When Norrington saw redness appearing around the stitches that evening, he conferred with Mercer, and between them they eased out half the sutures and doused the rest in brandy before applying a firm bandage to hold the flesh together.

Beckett never complained during this procedure, though it was obvious from his rigid posture that it hurt him. Norrington insisted that he have another dose of laudanum as soon as they had finished, and watched as the familiar effects took hold. Beckett smiled sleepily up at him and reached out with a hand to pull him closer.

Bearing in mind the tender state of the wound, Norrington did not sit on the bed, but dragged up a chair so that he could sit close to Beckett and hold his hand. He'd done this for the past couple of nights, waiting for Beckett to fall asleep, and it seemed to help.

"I haven't had my kiss yet."

"So you haven't," admitted Norrington, and leaned forward to perform the office. He was gentle with it - for one thing, Beckett was still in pain, and for another, he had provided him with release of a more intimate nature earlier in the day, when Beckett had woken from his post- ceremony nap. This was not for arousal but for comfort, and Norrington made sure to keep it that way.

"Mmm ... I like the way you kiss," breathed Beckett.

"I am truly flattered by your lordship's approbation."

Beckett squeezed his hand. "Flattered enough to slide your hand under my nightshirt?"

"Not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. Sleep now."

"One more kiss, then."

"Are you always so demanding?"

"Invariably."

Norrington gave a mock-sigh, but reached forward for another soft, slow, sensuous kiss. He could tell that the laudanum was already taking hold, and drew back, slowly, as Beckett's lips grew slack and he fell asleep.

"Sweet dreams," he whispered, as he replaced Beckett's hand on the counterpane.

  
**Chapter 6**

Now that the secret of Norrington's return to Port Royal was out, he started to receive invitations to dine or take tea with the families who made up Society in the town. He was known to most of them, of course, from his years with the Navy, but he had never made close friends of any of them, and it was no hardship to turn them down. He had the perfect excuse, after all - Beckett was not yet fit for a long evening's entertainment, and Norrington pointed out that he could hardly leave his host to dine alone.

Instead, he and Beckett spent their evenings together as the weather grew cooler, chatting and reading and dining together. They seldom had company, and continued dining _en deshabille_, Beckett having given Norrington the green silk dressing gown that he found so unflattering to his own complexion. They were seldom interrupted after the covers were removed, with the result that they sat up late into the night, simply enjoying each other's company. Sometimes there was sex, of a sort; more often there were simply caresses before Norrington finally retired to his own chamber. Life became, in fact, almost idyllic.

Neither of them had forgotten the pirate attack - how could they, when Beckett's dressings continued? - but it was most forcibly returned to their awareness as the trial drew closer. Both of them had been interviewed concerning their own parts in the affray, and, given that they had had several days in which to discuss the matter, it was not surprising that their accounts accorded in general and in particular. It was decided between them that Beckett had been suffering a severe headache brought on by too much reading, for which he had taken a large dose of laudanum, while Norrington's presence on the wharves was explained (in quiet, conspiratorial tones) to be in relation to a mission of some delicacy on behalf of the East India Trading Company, which his lordship would prefer to keep quiet. Norrington had protested at first, but Beckett knew his audience, and the magistrate had responded readily to the implied confidence in his discretion ... and to the press of several guineas into ink-stained hands.

The trial of the eight pirates - only eight of them had been apprehended, the rest having escaped back to their ship - took place in the small courthouse near Fort Charles, a scant three weeks after the attack. The courtroom was crammed with people from the town, eager to see the latest incarnations of piratical infamy meet their doom. In fact, pirate trials were becoming a rarity - the Navy had been so efficient, and the King's offer of pardon (for those who turned themselves in) so effective, that the number of pirates in the warm waters of the Caribbean had dropped sharply. While this was a matter of some comfort to merchants and sailors alike, there were some who bemoaned the lack of entertainment that a public hanging provided to rich and poor alike.

As Beckett had hoped, the trial was short, with minimal evidence being taken from the Company, the marines and the townspeople. He and Norrington were present only long enough to give their evidence and answer a few brief questions, and then they returned back to East India House. Norrington for one, had found it difficult to concentrate with the heat and stench of the room, and was glad to get out into the relatively fresh air. Even after they had returned home, he was still troubled by it, and stood outside on the balcony while Beckett caught up with some paperwork.

He looked at the ships in the harbour, rolling gently in the currents with their sails furled or taken down, their masts gaunt and skeletal. Their crews bustled about, loading and unloading, mending ropes, repairing sails, and touching up the paintwork. He felt a sudden intense longing to be back at sea once more, where the air was fresh and the water clean. He wanted to feel the deck moving under his feet, to see the sails billowing above him, to smell the salt spray as the ship fought the waves. He wanted to see the dolphins and flying fish that gambolled in the warm waters of the Atlantic. He wanted to feel the thrill of seeing a strange mast appear on the horizon, the tense moments before they identified friend or foe, the frantic bustle of preparations for battle. He wanted to be back where he belonged. He wanted it so much it was like an ache in his gut, and he clenched his fists in an effort to retain some small vestige of self-control.

He stayed out there, lost in thought, until Mercer returned with news of the verdict. As expected, some of the pirates had been reprieved, having expressed sincere penitence and a desire to change their lives for good, while five of them (including Nobby and Jemmy, they were pleased to hear) had been sentenced to be hanged.

"When is the execution, Mercer?"

"A week hence, milord, if Mr Eles can get the gibbets built in time. He said he has the wood, but he'll need a couple of good strong men to help him get them erected."

"Make sure he gets that help, then. I don't want those pirates to live a day longer than they have to."

"I'll see to it, milord."

"Good. And send a case of burgundy to the magistrate. A pleasing result, though I don't doubt he was too generous with the penitents. I'll wager they'll be back to their former ways as soon as they're released."

"Very good, milord."

He left, and Beckett and Norrington exchange relieved looks. Beckett rose from his desk and poured them each a glass of brandy. "I think that news calls for a small celebration, Norrington. I look forward to seeing them hang."

"As do I." He saw again in his mind's eye the gun that Nobby had aimed and fired at him, and gave a little shiver. That gun should have ended his life then and there, but for a simple mishap - or the grace of God. He took the glass from Beckett's hand and swallowed half the contents in one go.

"That's no way to treat a good Armagnac," protested Beckett.

Norrington ignored him and downed the rest of it. It burned in his gullet, but he welcomed the pain. He had to believe that there was a reason he had been spared - that there was a purpose in his life beyond simple survival. He had to believe that he had a future.

In spite of his admonishment, Beckett held out the decanter and poured more brandy into his glass. "To justice for all pirates," he said solemnly, before drinking.

"To justice," echoed Norrington. He couldn't bring himself to add the rest ... not while Elizabeth was still out there, not while he himself was still under attainder for aiding and abetting a pirate. Something compelled him to add: "And to the quality of mercy ... for who knows when we ourselves may need it some day."

Beckett nodded sombrely, and drank in turn. They stood in silence, facing but not looking at each other, for several long seconds. Then Beckett turned away and replaced the decanter on the table. He looked at the map on the wall, then said, softly, "I want you in my bed tonight."

It seemed Beckett wished to remind him that he still lived upon his lordship's mercy. Norrington shrugged. "As you wish," he answered, still gazing into the bottom of his glass.

"I meant - " he broke off, and left the room abruptly, leaving Norrington wondering what he would have said. Had he meant that Norrington had a choice?

He thought about that. He was still technically a prisoner, but he had no doubt that his status was not the same as it had been before his fever. He was no longer an outcast. He was no longer Beckett's shameful secret. People would expect to see him from time to time, dressed as befitted a gentleman, well-fed and uninjured. He was, in fact, quite safe from harm, until such time as Beckett received a reply from the Admiralty. After that ... well, it would all depend on what their lordships decided.

He went back out onto the balcony and looked over the harbour. The tropical vegetation had never seemed so beautiful - so lush, so wild, so different from the placid farmland of England. He shivered at the thought of going home to that damp, cold island, to the modest house in Suffolk where he had grown up. It was hardly reassuring to think that he might never get the chance - that he might, in fact be adorning a gibbet of his own, a few weeks or months hence.

What would he do if the Admiralty upheld their original decision? What would Beckett do if ordered to have him executed? Would he clap him in irons again, or might he be prevailed upon to look the other way as he made his escape ... in much the same way that he, Norrington had connived at Sparrow's escape a year ago? What would it take to persuade Beckett to let him go? 

~~~~~

And so it was that Norrington found himself in Beckett's chamber once more, undressing slowly in the candlelight, while Beckett lay back on the pillows in his nightshirt. He still thought it was too soon, but Beckett had insisted that the wound no longer pained him except upon a great exertion, and Norrington had seen with his own eyes how well it was healing. There was no suppuration, the redness had almost gone and the edges of the wound had adhered quite strongly. There was no reason to believe that Beckett would take any great hurt, as long as they took things gently for a while.

It was for this reason (and none other, he told himself) that he slid silently and smoothly into bed, before turning to Beckett and reaching out an arm to touch the dressing.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "I can do -"

"Yes, of course I'm sure," interrupted Beckett. Then, in a lower, less belligerent tone, he added, "I'll tell you if I start to tire, I promise. Now, hand me that oil, and open your legs for me.

Norrington nodded, torn between reluctance and eagerness. He tipped his head back as Beckett's fingers enfolded him, drawing him out and up as his cock stiffened. More fingers entered him, spreading the sweet-scented oil over soft, puckered skin. He sighed, and gasped, and finally he panted as Beckett's hands brought him close to the tipping point.

He rolled over when ordered, raising his buttocks and spreading his knees wide to make the entry as easy as possible. Beckett slid into him slowly, letting him relax and adjust to the intrusion he hadn't felt in three weeks. He welcomed it now; he craved the sensation of being filled and plundered. Slowly, they established a rhythm, moving in time with each other and with the swaying mattress.

When Beckett's strength started to fail - as Norrington had known it would - he took a firm grip on his cock and brought himself off, hoping that he'd bring Beckett with him. It didn't work, and as soon as he had got his breath back, he pulled himself away, turning around and pushing Beckett back down onto the bed.

"Let me," was all he said, but Beckett must have read his meaning, for he relaxed, and let Norrington take him in hand. It wasn't long before his release was pulsing over Norrington's hand, and he sighed.

"I could have finished it myself."

"I know. But this way I don't get shot by Mercer for giving you a relapse."

"Ah. Understandable, then. He's a very good shot." Beckett pulled himself up to a sitting position and turned so that his head was once more at the pillow end. He settled himself down and looked up at the ceiling.

"I don't doubt it." Norrington glanced at Beckett and proffered a large cotton handkerchief that he had been using to wipe his hands. Beckett took it and cleaned himself up before dropping it over the side of the bed.

Norrington got up and reached for his breeches.

"You don't have to go."

"Appearances."

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "Do you honestly think they don't know?"

"It's not what they don't know, it's what they can plausibly deny."

Beckett chuckled. "You're learning far too much guile."

"I'm learning from a master."

"Ah hah! At last you begin to appreciate my worth."

"Don't let it go to your head."

They exchanged grins, and then Norrington pulled on his breeches, shrugged himself into his dressing gown, grabbed his remaining clothing and padded silently from the room.

~~~~~

Two days later, _HMS Glamorgan_ called in at Port Royal, on her way to pay an official visit to Panama. She carried several packets of letters for the Governor, and some for Lord Beckett, which were delivered by her commanding officer, Captain March, who stayed for an hour, telling the Agent all the latest London news. Norrington kept to his room during the visit, still feeling rather ashamed of his situation and reluctant to be seen by his former colleagues.

It wasn't long after the captain had left however, that Mercer came up to his room. "His lordship's compliments, and he would like you to join him in the office."

"What news from England, Mr Mercer?"

"That I couldn't say, Mr Norrington. His lordship did not elaborate."

"I suppose, then, that I had better join him."

Beckett was sitting back in his chair, nibbling on a fingernail, perusing a rather large, official-looking letter with the East India Trading Company seal. He looked up. "Ah, Norrington," he said, setting the letter to one side and scrabbling about among the many papers on the desk until he found what he was looking for. "We have a response from the Admiralty."

"So soon?" Norrington was astonished.

"Indeed. I had not looked for a response for another month. You'll be interested in the contents." He gave a very self-satisfied smirk as he opened up the letter and scanned it for the relevant parts. "I was right. The Admiralty has had time to reconsider its hasty action and has decided that, in view of the exceptional services you have rendered to the nation, your sentence has been reduced to a fine and a spell of incarceration, not to exceed six months ... terms to be decided by me ... regular reports ... all the usual nonsense. Signed and sealed by Lord Berkeley himself." He grinned mischievously. "Well, I think we might be able to accommodate that, eh, Mr Norrington?"

"I can't say that the prospect of returning to Fort Charles is particularly attractive." In fact, Norrington was devastated. He had hoped for a pardon, not a spell in prison. How was he to cope with the rats, the lice, the damp? How was he to purchase the minimal comforts available to those with gold to spare? He still hadn't made a full recovery from the relapsing fever - he was nowhere near as strong as he used to be, and his heart pounded alarmingly whenever he exerted himself too much. What if he caught another ague in the prison? What about gaol fever? Consumption? Anything was possible in his weakened state.

Beckett was still smiling, and Norrington felt like knocking him off his chair. They'd become so close over the past weeks that he had ceased to think of escape. He'd even harboured thoughts of deepest affection towards his captor, and now to find him apparently complacent at the thought of seeing him in prison once more was simply too much for Norrington to bear. He strode over to the window and looked out, unwilling to let Beckett see how much the news had affected him.

"Idiot."

"What?"

"I said you were an idiot, and you are." Beckett dropped the letter on the table and walked over to join Norrington at the window, leaning on him like a tired child. "They don't specify the date of commencement. If we count the time that has elapsed since you arrived back in Port Royal, you've already served almost three months. I shall simply ask for your parole and, should you give it, life will continue on as it has done for the past few weeks."

Norrington couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Here?" he queried.

"Here. Their lordships did not, after all, specify a location. I'm sure that I can get the Governor to agree to you living here. In fact, there would be nothing to stop me sending you out to sea on Company business either, as long as Mercer or I accompanied you. It's all a matter of interpretation, after all."

_Here_. He could continue to live here, with Beckett and Mercer and Susan, in comfort and security ... the relief was almost overwhelming. He nodded. "Thank you, milord."

"A friend would call me Cutler."

"Am I a friend?"

"I'd like to think so."

Norrington thought about it, then nodded. "Cutler."

"James."

They shook hands, solemnly.

"So, James, are you going to give me your parole?

Norrington hesitated. It was the one thing he had promised himself that he would never do, in those long hours of tormented solitude in the attic, but things had changed, after all. He looked Beckett in the face, and saw no trace of deception or guile, only honest concern. He nodded. "Yes, Cutler. I'll give you my word of honour. I shall not try to escape."

"Fair enough." Beckett paused, and Norrington thought he looked a little shamefaced. "And I give you my word I shall not abuse you as I did when you first arrived in this house. You shall be treated as an officer and a gentleman."

His head was down, and Norrington fought the urge to tilt his chin up and kiss him as he would a shy girl. Instead, he clapped a hand on his shoulder, saying, "I have no doubt of it."

Beckett smiled at him, still a little unsure, and it tugged at Norrington's heart. Here was the boy he'd known in Madras, before Blakely's poison had touched him, before the years had made him bitter and tormented. Here was the man who shielded himself from the world in a cloak of cynicism and bitter jests, who had hidden even the desires of his heart and his body for fear of ridicule.

"We should start again," he said softly.

Beckett's hand reached up to cover the one on his shoulder, and he smiled. "Perhaps we should."

~~~~~

That evening, as they retired to Beckett's chamber once more, Norrington was struck with some doubt. He wanted to make sure that the change in their relationship - if so it could be called - was reflected in their nocturnal arrangements. He wanted a more equal voice, a chance to take the initiative, but he wasn't sure that Beckett would let him. He had to try, though. He was no longer the broken man he'd been at the start of his captivity.

At first it was easy to take the lead - he merely rolled over to face Beckett and started running a hand over the lustrous skin of his throat and neck, before venturing further down, over the hairs that covered his chest and abdomen. He accompanied this with kisses, dipping his tongue into Beckett's mouth like a hummingbird seeking nectar from a flower.

He let his fingers stray down, around the rising prick and beyond it, to the sensitive spot beneath, hearing Beckett's groans and half-choked cries of pleasure. Slowly, he moved further back, finally reaching the place where he could insert a fingertip.

Beckett made a half-hearted attempt to push him away. "No."

Norrington wasn't listening, and pushed in more deeply.

Beckett struggled, but failed to dislodge Norrington's finger. "I said no. I won't have it! I won't be taken again!"

His tempter flared, as he had known it would. "I've _earned_ this, damn you," he hissed. He looked into Beckett's eyes, seeing pain and fear and desperation, but also lust and longing. He gathered his courage and continued. "Whatever I did to you in India, I've made up for it and more. You've had your revenge, many times over. If you can't bear to treat me as an equal, now, after all that has happened, then I'll leave your bed now, and I won't return."

Beckett considered that for several long seconds, his body tense and still. It took him a long time to come to a decision, and when he did there was only a marginal relaxation. He gave a slight nod, his eyes closed and his features stern.

Norrington waited, motionless, his finger still buried deep in Beckett's body, not daring to move until he had some answer that was clearer than a nod.

Beckett opened his eyes, still uncertain, biting his lip in a way that made him look absurdly young and vulnerable. Norrington sighed. He wasn't going to force the man - he didn't want to re-start the cycle of hurt and revenge that had cost them both so much over the past years - but he wasn't going to be just his lordship's catamite either. He wanted more - much, much more - and if he wasn't going to be an equal partner, then he wasn't going to play at all. He eased his finger out, then dropped a light kiss to the sweet lips before moving away, saying, "I'll go, then."

"Wait."

He looked back at Beckett, who was reaching out to him.

"Don't go."

"Do you mean that?"

Beckett nodded. "But you'd better make this worth it, damn you."

Norrington smiled. "You'd better find that oil, then."

Beckett reached into the drawer beside the bed and pulled out the familiar vial. He placed it, with some reluctance, into Norrington's hand. "I haven't played the woman's part to any man since that night in Madras. I confess to a considerable degree of apprehension."

Norrington was surprised to hear Beckett's admission. He hadn't realised - in spite of all the evidence he'd seen and felt over the past few weeks - that their one night in Madras had had such an effect on the young factor. For his part, he'd fucked and been fucked plenty of times, enough to know that even when vengeance was not a part of it, a lack of care could cause pain and injury. He looked at the bottle in his hand and then at Beckett. "You need not fear this, you know," he said, hoping to reassure the man. "I'll be gentle. I know what it feels like to be forced."

"That is the very fact that has me worried." Beckett swallowed, then stuck out his chin resolutely. "It would be only just for you to ... to be somewhat careless in your preparation. Do what you must. I shan't cry out."

Norrington shook his head. "No. You need to learn - to re-learn - what it feels like. You need to know how good it can be, with someone who takes the time to open you up, to touch you with patience and consideration. I'll finger you and stroke you and caress you inside and out, over and over, until you beg me to enter you. You'll be writhing under me, arching your hips and reaching desperately for my cock. It's all you'll be able to think about - my cock and your cunt, and how much you want to feel me inside you. You'll see."

Beckett's eyes were glazed already, as Norrington pushed him back onto the pillows and reached between his legs. This time he was slow, wanting to tease his lover, wanting to see him whimper and groan and cry out at his command. He kissed a trail down from lips to jaw to neck, to the spot underneath Beckett's ear that earned him a sigh. He stayed there for a little while, nuzzling gently with lips and tongue and teeth, allowing Beckett to relax and to get used to being touched.

He dipped his head and deliberately ran his tongue over the scar left by the pirate's knife. Beckett started and tried to pull away. Norrington pressed his weight down, preventing him from escaping.

"It's a part of you," he said, answering the silent question. "It's not ugly. It doesn't disgust me. It's just a part of you - a part of your history. It reminds me of your courage."

Beckett looked at him anxiously, and Norrington moved up to kiss him again. "Courage, Cutler. Trust me."

Beckett nodded and relaxed a little, and this time made almost no movement as Norrington returned to kiss the scar once more. He moved down a little, taking his time over the sensitive skin on either flank, allowing his tongue to play with the hairs that led from navel to pubes. Beckett squirmed - he was ticklish there - and tried to hurry him up, but Norrington was determined to take his time. He wanted to hear Beckett moan and yell and lose all control, and he wanted to have the satisfaction of knowing he'd broken through the man's iron composure.

He should have remembered that this was the same Lord Beckett who had withstood the pain of torture without a whimper. Beckett was certainly exhibiting every sign of enjoyment - he was smiling a little, and moving his hips in response to Norrington's fingerthrusts, but there was no whimpering, no pleading; only a gentle sigh now and again.

Norrington shifted down the bed and nuzzled at the dark curls surrounding Beckett's cock. He licked at the full, heavy balls in the wrinkled sac, and, pulling Beckett's legs wider, applied his tongue to the delicate skin behind. He breathed in the slightly musky scent, and even went so far as to scrape his teeth gently over the inner thighs, gratified at the sudden shuddering of Beckett's breath. Finally, after licking up the fluid that was now oozing freely from the erect cock in front of him, he opened the bottle and tipped a small amount onto his fingers. He inserted one finger, gently, knowing that it would merely whet Beckett's appetite. Two fingers went in almost as easily, and he used them to spread open the tissue, still gently, and to let the oil spread over the skin, inside and out.

Beckett sighed. "Mmm... that's good, just there."

"It gets better, trust me."

Three fingers met with some resistance, but he worked them slowly, teasing out the skin with gentle pressure and more oil, noting with approval how Beckett's breathing had become more rapid and his skin more flushed. He worked the fingers a little more forcefully, and Beckett broke at last, giving voice to a long, hoarse moan that rose from the very centre of his being.

"There's still some way to go. Have patience."

"I don't want patience. I want to be fucked."

"Shh. Not long to go. Just one more finger."

"Well, then, get it in there and ... oh ..." the fourth finger reduced him to speechlessness, and he arched and writhed as Norrington had promised, his skin flushed and his eyes half-closed with passion.

"Now, James! Now! Get your fucking cock inside my arse before I call Mercer and have you clapped in irons again."

Norrington nearly choked with laughter. A month ago those words would have filled him with dread - now they were simply endearing. Still, he withdrew his hand, ignoring Beckett's protests, and coated his shaft with the last of the oil from the bottle, giving it a few strokes to restore it to full hardness. He placed himself between Beckett's thighs, positioned himself, and pushed. There was a momentary resistance, then Beckett opened to him and he slid in smoothly.

"Oh," he exclaimed, involuntarily. His body remembered this. His mind had forgotten, almost, what that boy in India had felt like, but his body hadn't. The glorious heat, the small movements of his hips, the wanton look in his eyes - all were as Norrington remembered, and it was amazing.

He nearly bit through his own lip as he struggled to retain his composure. He wanted to thrust blindly, to let himself go, to abandon all restraint; but he had promised Beckett the fuck of a lifetime, and he wasn't going to let him down. He was going to make this last, he was going to enjoy the feeling of heat that surrounded him, the smell of musk and sweat and perfume that rose from their bodies, and the sight of his lover beneath him, dark and golden in the light of the single candle.

He pulled out a little, pushed in a little, using small, gentle movements that allowed Beckett to get used to the feeling. As the body beneath him relaxed and opened up more, movement became easier, and he started to increase the power and speed of his thrusts. He pushed on Beckett's hips to alter their position and pushed in again, this time brushing against the spot that had Beckett gasping.

It took everything he had to stop for a moment. A few more strokes and he'd be finished, and he couldn't, not yet, not until he'd brought Beckett off. He steadied himself on one elbow and reached for Beckett's prick, giving it along, slow stroke that elicited a deep groan from the other man.

"Come on, James," said Beckett, pulling him down for a kiss, tangling their tongues together in a glorious battle that sent renewed stabs of longing down to his groin. "Fuck me into madness."

He groaned, and pulled back for a moment to regain some composure. Beckett was looking up at him, both trusting and challenging, and he responded with renewed vigour. "You're going to come for me, you're going to call my name."

"Oh, yes, just there, don't stop, please don't stop."

"Say my name."

"Don't stop."

"Say my name."

"Oh ... oh, James."

"Yes."

"James!"

"Yes, go on. Come for me." He thrust harder and faster, trying as best he could to pump Beckett's cock with the same rhythm. He was so close himself, he wasn't going to make it ...

And then Beckett cried out and arched off the bed, his prick shooting fluid over his chest and the enclosing hand, and the suddenness of it tipped Norrington over into his own release and there was heat and light and frantic movement and wordless cries and for one brief moment he thought that this orgasm would never end.

Beckett gave once last convulsion and collapsed back onto the sheets. Norrington felt all the strength ebbing from him with the last of his emissions, and let himself drop to lie on Beckett's chest, his head falling naturally into the curve of Beckett's shoulder, sated and drained. He was surprised, but somewhat pleased, to feel Beckett's arms go around him, making him feel warm and wanted.

As awareness returned, he was troubled. The intensity of the emotions he had just felt had overwhelmed him. What's more, he suspected that the longer he stayed with Beckett, the more intense those feelings would get. He was long past the stage where he could tell himself that it was simple lust, but exactly what it was ... well, that was something he wasn't prepared to consider in detail.

He put those dangerous thoughts to one side for the moment. There'd be time enough for thinking in the days ahead.

He lifted himself slightly, pulled out of Beckett's body and rolled over onto his back. He was absurdly pleased when Beckett rolled over in turn and nestled into the crook of his arm. It felt good to be able to hold him, to feel Beckett pressing kisses over his chest, running his hand over the hairs on his chest and abdomen.

"Tickles," he muttered, sleepily.

Beckett giggled. "Good," he said, and tweaked a nipple. "Don't want you to get too complacent," he explained, over Norrington's yelp.

"One of these days," yawned Norrington, "I'm going to... mmm..." he trailed off, unable to think of anything sufficiently wicked and delightful.

"Sshh. Sleep now."

"Mmm."

~~~~~

Norrington woke early the next morning feeling more rested and full of energy than he had in a long while. He was warm and relaxed, and he could feel the heavy weight of Cutler Beckett against his chest, the cropped hair tickling his chin. He smiled, remembering how good it had been, how he had made Beckett beg for him, made him call out at the moment of completion. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so good, so thoroughly drained after sex, and he wondered if there was a chance of it happening again. He really did prefer fucking to being fucked, no matter how good it felt, and he loved fucking Beckett in particular. He wasn't sure why - though his looks and his eagerness were certainly a part of it. The previous night had been the most intense and enjoyable he'd ever had.

Beckett stirred against him, then settled down, muttering something indistinguishable. Norrington glanced at the curtains, noting the light coming through the gaps. It was definitely morning, and Proudfoot would be coming in at any moment to bring Beckett his morning cup of chocolate. He had to leave before that happened. _Though I doubt there's any servant in the house who didn't hear us last night_, he mused. Still, it was the appearance that counted, and if he were safely in his own bed by the time the servants came upstairs, everything else could be denied.

He eased himself out of the bed, wincing at every small noise, and stood up. Beckett was already inching his way over the warm sheets, like a mole searching blindly for its mate, and Norrington smiled as he stole out of the room and along the passageway to his own bed.

~~~~~

He wasn't surprised to get a summons to Beckett's room later that morning, but he didn't expect to be taken out riding.

"Are sure you are not in some discomfort?" he asked, as they trotted along the road out of the city, Beckett on his handsome grey, he on a quiet brown gelding.

Beckett looked at him with all the hauteur of a prince, and Norrington felt ashamed for having asked. Then Beckett grinned and said, "It's agony, actually, but I won't let a little pain stop me from doing what I want. And I'm certainly not going to let you think that you could bugger me hard enough to cripple me."

Norrington laughed. "I'll just have to try harder next time," he quipped.

"Hah!" was all that Beckett said, but he sounded amused.

The grey was frolicsome, and Beckett had to rein him in more than once as they rode through the streets, until they reached the open ground and he was able to let him have his head. The grey needed no encouragement and set off at a gallop along the isthmus.

The gelding followed behind, at a slightly less hell-for-leather pace, and caught up with them as they reached the halfway point. After that, they proceeded at a more sedate pace until they reached the promontory, the one that looked south, across the Caribbean to the Spanish Main. It was a popular place for riders, but today there was no one but themselves. They didn't speak, just dismounted, and stood beside their horses, absorbing the freshness of the ocean air and the wind and the majestic view over the sea.

Norrington found a convenient branch to tether the gelding and sat on the grass, hugging his knees. It was some minutes later that he said, quietly, "I'm thinking of taking passage back to England."

The grey started - had Beckett suddenly pulled on the reins? - and Beckett was hard-pressed to get him back under control. "Quiet, Brontës." He kept his head turned away, looking at the horse, running his free hand down the neck to soothe him. "Oh? And what do you intend to do back home?"

Norrington shrugged. "Business, I suppose. My family isn't rich or titled. I'll have to find employment. A friend of my father's once offered me a job in his place of work - I may take it up."

"If the offer remains."

"True."

Beckett looped Brontës' reins to a tree before sitting himself down beside Norrington. "Would you go back to sea?"

"As a merchant master? Possibly."

"What about the Navy?"

"I resigned my commission; they'll never take me back. Even if Lord Carruthers had not died, they wouldn't take me back."

"Ah, yes, I forgot that you were Carruthers' follower. I did wonder how you rose so rapidly to the giddy height of Commodore."

"As I wondered how you advanced so quickly in the Company."

Beckett gave a slow, sly smile. "I'd say that I rose entirely by my own efforts, but truth compels me to admit that I owe my early advancement to the influence of my uncle. He has since retired, unfortunately." He laughed. "We're two of a kind, James. Both our patrons are lost, and we are now suffering the resentment of those we left behind. I, at least, can command some influence through my title now, and through the governor here, but I imagine it must be much harder for you."

"But then I, at least, will have the knowledge that my future advancement will depend on my talent alone, and not on the whims of greybeards in distant offices."

Beckett laughed. "True." He sobered quickly though, leaning over to place a hand on Norrington's knee. "Don't go, James," he said, seriously. "Stay here. Work with me."

"Become a trader? Never." He spoke a little more forcefully than he had intended, and hastened to apologise. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it as an insult. It's just that I do not find the world of trade at all interesting."

"The Company needs more than just traders and factors. I'm sure we can work out something suitable for you, something that won't offend your sensibilities."

Norrington had the grace to blush slightly, but he shook his head.

Beckett pressed on. "I have all the merchants and factors and clerks I can use here. What I don't have is a sound man with local knowledge to help me with the planters. I need an advisor."

"You have Mercer."

Beckett made a dismissive gesture. "Mercer is a very good man in his way - absolutely indispensable for some tasks, I grant you - but he is and always will be a servant. I need someone of my own rank, who can mix with the gentry and the richer merchants and the visiting ships. I need someone who can explain the background to these interminable local scandals. I need someone I can trust with my affairs." He paused, and his voice became a little softer. "I need a friend, James. Don't go."

"Are you asking me, or ordering me?"

There was a long pause. "I rarely ask when I can command, but in this case ... yes, I'm asking you. I won't command you to stay. If you insist on leaving, I'll give you letters of introduction to my uncle and some of his cronies - just in case your friend's venture falls through. That's the least I can do. I remember my debts, you see."

Norrington pondered Beckett's words. He needed influence in England if he was going to get on. His father's friend - well, there had been more bravado than substance in that statement. The offer was years old now, and might not be repeated. And if it were not ... well, there were far too many out-of-work seamen, and he'd be lucky to get a mate's position at best, with the prospect of long years' arduous service before he could hope to be master of his own ship.

Beckett offered him a position here, where the sun shone and the winds were warm, where he could live the life of a gentleman for a fraction of what it would cost in London. He'd be a fool to turn it down. And yet ...

"And what of us?"

"Us?"

"Our previous ... _arrangement_ ... cannot continue. You said so yourself."

Cutler smiled, and his eyes glittered. "Well, James, I can't deny that I hoped our _arrangement_ might survive, though perhaps not in its original form."

"Oh?"

"The circumstances have changed: you're a hero. You have the freedom of the city. I can't go around Port Royal treating the Hero of the Hour like a slave, now can I? Even if you are, technically, still a prisoner. People would talk."

"If not a slave, then what?"

"I told you, James. I do wish you'd listen to me from time to time. I want you as my friend."

"Friend?"

"Yes, friend. "

"Nothing more?"

"Would you be interested in more?"

"I might be. Given the right incentive."

"Hmm. And that might be?"

"A more equal arrangement."

"What did you have in mind?"

Norrington took hold of Beckett and pulled him close. "I don't want last night to be an exception. I want the right to bugger you senseless whenever I want."

"That's a lot to ask."

He might have said more, but Norrington cut him off with a kiss - a hard, deep brutal kiss.

Several minutes later, Beckett was lying flat on the ground, dishevelled and debauched, his eyes half-closed and his hands still trying to reach down inside Norrington's breeches.

"So ... I take it you do not object to my stipulation?" Norrington leaned against him, pushing his hips forward.

"Not exactly."

Norrington lifted an eyebrow. Beckett grinned, pulling him down and rolling them both over for another ravishing kiss. "I'm not giving up my own rights. I want to make sure that I can still bugger you senseless as well."

"Oh, that goes without saying. Milord."

More kissing ensued, until Beckett broke away, struggling for breath. "Perhaps I should endeavour to get the Admiralty to restore your commission. If you're always this energetic I'll need your sea time to recuperate."

"They won't take me back. Even you couldn't get them to take me back."

"Is that a challenge, James?"

"You couldn't ... could you?" Suddenly the prospect of being restored to his former position loomed before him, at once attractive and repellent.

"I don't see why not. At least you're acclimatised. From what I gather, the mortality rate among newcomers here is high enough to put off most officers."

"Well, it is rather high, I suppose."

"And you're still alive after how many years?"

"Nearly ten."

"Nearly ten. Almost a native, then."

"No more than you became a native of India after fifteen." His tone was acerbic.

Beckett grinned, unrepentant. "Touché. A resident, then, rather than a visitor."

Norrington accepted the amended appellation and smiled. "If I get my commission back for me, you might lose me to the Home Fleet."

"Absolutely not. I shall make it a condition that you are to remain here in perpetuity."

"In perpetuity?"

"Well, as long as I'm here, at any rate."

"And then what - a triumphant return to England?"

"Most certainly. I shall open up Beckett House, buy a viscounty, take a noble wife and breed an heir."

Norrington let his hands drop and rolled away, lying on his back with an arm over his face to shield his eyes from the strong midday sun. He felt crushed. He knew he shouldn't. After all, Beckett had to have an heir, and he couldn't get one without marrying, but still, to talk of it so soon after they had disclosed their attachment to each other was cruel. "Of course."

Beckett leaned forward and put an arm around Norrington's waist. "Idiot. I'm not going to forget you."

"You have to marry."

"Of course I have to marry. So do you. When I go back to England you're going to come with me, and then you're going to buy a neat house close to mine - in fact, I know the very one that will suit you. You'll find yourself a pretty little wife, and have half a dozen children, and your eldest son will marry my eldest daughter."

"You seem intent on creating some Arcadian phantasy." Norrington knew he sounded ungrateful, and hated himself for it, but he had imagined - hoped - that they might have some sort of future together. He took a deep breath, and tried to smile. "I'm sure it will be perfect."

"Doubly an idiot." Beckett rolled over so that he was lying on top of Norrington, pushed his arm out of the way and kissed him full on the mouth before continuing in a low voice. "You'll be married, and I'll be married, and there will be much to-ing and fro-ing between our houses, and we will spend all our days together, and there will be fucking and shagging and sucking and fondling behind some very solid oak doors."

Suddenly Norrington realised what Beckett was saying. "Oh." He opened his eyes.

Beckett shook his head and gave a wry smile. "Yes, oh, indeed. It's all about appearances, remember. As long as you remember to shag your wife once a month or so, you can shag me as often as you please and no one will know or care."

"That sounds like a good idea."

"So's this one: kiss me some more."

Norrington complied willingly, and things were starting to get a little heated when Beckett asked, "I don't suppose you brought any oil with you?"

"Sadly, no."

"Bugger. Or, rather, no bugger, which is extremely frustrating. I shall make it a requirement that we each carry a small vial of oil at all times in future. Let us return to the city at once. I have a new friend to debauch."

"What a strange coincidence. So have I."

They made a run for the horses.

  
**Epilogue: 18 years later (circa 1743)**

It seemed to take forever to get rid of the funeral guests. Admiral Sir James Norrington knew his wife had been well-liked in the neighbourhood, but even he was surprised by the number of people who had turned up to pay their respects - nearly a hundred of them had crowded into the small church, and many had been in tears. He was light-headed from grief and lack of sleep and hunger, and wished them all at the devil, but he continued to stand by the door, exchanging the usual words of condolence and hypocrisy, as they trickled out, one by one, into the November fog.

Finally, however, he was left with his sister-in-law Mary, her husband Samuel (a bluff gentleman of comfortable means) and Cutler Beckett. There were no children present: his own three were dead long since (two of smallpox; one of a fall from a tree); while Cutler's only surviving son Toby was at school. Samuel and Mary had left their loud and boisterous brood in the capable hands of their governess, a consideration for which he was most thankful. It wasn't that he disliked children, but his nephews and nieces only served to remind him of his own losses, and he could never endure their company for very long.

As the last of the mourners stepped out, he found Bamford at his side, murmuring that Lord Beckett had ordered tea to be brought to his study.

He smiled. It was typical of Cutler that he would give orders to someone else's butler, but he had no intention of countermanding them. Tea was a good idea, and if Cutler had managed to exclude Samuel and Mary from his study, he would be grateful. He wanted nothing more than to get staggeringly drunk, and then to curl up and sleep for a month, but being alone with his friend would be almost as good.

Cutler was seated in a chair by the fire, toasting his hands. He rose immediately James entered the study and waited only until Bamford had closed the door before throwing his arms around James' shoulders and hugging him closely. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I wish I could have done more. I know she meant a great deal to you."

James let himself be hugged, revelling in the closeness, and nodded. "She was an inestimable woman." It was good to be held in the strong arms of his friend, and it was some time before he straightened up and gave him a rather watery smile. The two of them sat down by the fire: he in his customary chair, Cutler in the one opposite. They didn't speak. Cutler poured him a cup of tea, and he sipped it in silence, grateful that Cutler could be so understanding and so kind. He regarded a loose thread on the arm of the chair, and wondered when his belongings had become so shabby.

It wasn't until he put the cup down that he said, quietly, "She knew about us, you know."

"What?" Cutler was startled out of his own reverie.

"Cynthia. She knew I loved you. She knew we were ... intimate."

Cutler looked stunned. "She knew? For how long?"

"Since Jonathon died, four years ago. You consoled me then, do you remember? I don't know how she knew, but she did."

"She never said."

James gave a wan smile. "No, she never said. She had her pride, too."

Cutler put his own teacup down and stared at him. "Four years ... for four years I've hidden how I felt for you, when she knew all the time? When I could have had you openly?"

"That's very selfish of you."

"Selfish? Of course it's selfish! Eleven years I've been waiting for you, since Catherine died, and you tell me now that the last four years were unnecessary!"

"Keep your voice down, for heaven's sake. I don't want Samuel coming in here."

Cutler glared at him, but brought his temper under control. "I'm sorry, James," he said, looking contrite.

"You are forgiven." He leaned forward and gave Cutler's hand a squeeze. "She didn't tell me, either, you know. It was only a few weeks ago, when she fell ill, that she told me how she'd seen us kissing one day. She said that it took her some time to get used to the idea that I could love you and her both."

Cutler smiled, ruefully. "It took me a long time to realise the same." He rose from his chair and stood by the hearth, looking down into the flames. "It feels like I've waited forever for you," he said, sneaking a glance back at James. "Fourteen years you were married, and I hated every day of it."

"You married first."

"I had to, for the title - you know that. It wasn't a love-match, like yours." He shrugged, hiding the bitterness. It was an old argument, and they both knew it.

"It's over now."

Cutler nodded. "It's over." He took a deep breath. "James, I - I want you to come and live with me."

James looked up, surprised. "At Beckett House?"

"Well, it makes no sense to maintain two establishments now that we're both alone." When Norrington didn't answer, he went on, "I've earned this, James. We both have. We've bowed to society and custom, both of us, and little joy we've had of it. I'm two-and-fifty now, and I don't know how much longer I'll live. I want to make sure my last years are comfortable, and I want to spend them with my best friend. I want to spend my days with you, spend my nights with you, and wake up in the morning with you. I've wanted that for so long."

"What about Toby?"

"He's at school most of the year, then he'll go on to university, or the army."

"He'll notice."

Cutler smiled. "He's a boy, James. When did you ever notice anything unusual about your parents or their friends?"

James smiled back. "Never."

"Everyone knows we're old friends. We've both lost our wives, our children ... what would be more natural than for you to come and live with me?"

James said nothing, and Cutler tried again. He turned away from the fire and moved to stand by James' chair, putting an arm around his shoulder and whispering, "Come live with me and be my love ..."

It didn't have the intended effect: instead, James broke down completely and started sobbing. Cutler perched on the arm of the chair and leaned over him, trying to hug him as best he could given the awkward position, murmuring, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over again.

After a few minutes James pulled himself together, saying "I did love her, you know."

"I know you did."

"She looked like Elizabeth," he added.

Cutler nodded agreement. "The resemblance was very strong."

"I'm going to miss her."

"I know. It's only natural."

James patted his pockets, as if looking for something. Cutler shook his head, fondly, and proffered a handkerchief. James took it with the hint of a smile and blew his nose determinedly, then took a deep breath and looked around the room. There was a modest set of bookshelves, a large, heavy desk, several chairs and some chests of papers. "Would you have room for my chair?" he asked.

Cutler smiled and kissed him. "Bring the whole house if you wish. We'll fit it in somehow."

James shook his head. "Just the chair," he said. "And my clothes."

"What about the books?"

"I think you have most of them already. You always did read more than I."

"True. Still, I think you have some that I don't have - naval memoirs and the like, and your Royal Society papers. You should bring those."

James nodded. "I'll leave the rest to be sold with the house," he said with determination. "I'll have to provide for Bamford and his wife, and the maid will need something besides a reference." He sighed. "So much to do."

"I'll get Mercer to deal with it. It'll do him good - he's getting fat and lazy."

They shared a smile at the thought of the rapier-thin Mercer ever slowing down enough to put on an ounce of fat. As Beckett's major-domo he displayed the same silent efficiency they'd known in Jamaica, with the result that he was the envy of all the surrounding gentlefolk and the terror of the servants.

James leaned into Cutler and rested his head on the chest of his friend. It felt so good to know that he had Cutler's support, friendship and love. He felt as though he could relax for the first time in ... well, in a long, long time.

"Thank you for staying behind," he whispered. "It was very good of you."

"Not at all. Purely selfish reasons, I assure you," Cutler murmured into his ear, reaching a hand down towards his breeches. "You've kept this hidden from me for far too long." He gave a few strokes to emphasise his point.

James groaned, and leaned back in his chair, shifting his hips forward into Cutler's palm. "It's been months, hasn't it? Godsblood, that feels good. Next chance I get, I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't remember your own name."

"Promises, promises."

"I'll keep this one."

"You'd better. I've got some new oil for us to try, perfumed with sandalwood from Arabia, seven shillings an ounce. It smells delicious and feels like the finest silk on my fingers. I can't wait to try it on you. "

James groaned again and looked up. "And you tell me this now, when Mary and Samuel are still in the house?" He bit his lip, caught between laughter and despair. "I can't leave them overnight. We'll just have to wait until they've gone."

Cutler gave him a bright, conspiratorial smile. "No we don't: I brought it with me."

James gaped at him. "But they're in the parlour!"

"There's a lock on the door, isn't there? All you have to do is turn the key, and then you can bugger me over the desk. You know it's strong enough."

All the blood in James' body went to his groin. God help him, but he hadn't been this hard in years! With some difficulty he rose to his feet and looked down at the mischievous face of his lover.

"You are a wicked, sinful temptation, Cutler Beckett."

"Of course I am. It's why you love me."

He was right, of course, thought James as he turned the key in the lock and unbuttoned his breeches. He was always right.

  


THE END


End file.
